The Truth in the Lie
by Tinkerpanda
Summary: Shelley's been hiding behind the facade of a happy marriage for years, but that mirage is kicked out from underneath her from the visit of an old highschool friend turned cop. The story of Wordy and Shelley.
1. Practically Routine

Author's Note:

Firstly: I don't own Flashpoint or any of the characters. If I did Lou would currently be the godfather of Jammy's firstborn. Just sayin'

Second: Please be gentle - this is my first fic.

Thirdly: I'm not Ontarian, I don't know Toronto. My geographic/cultural knowledge of the T-dot is very very limited. Forgive me?

Fourthly: I started this fic before 3x08 (The Good Citizen) and have been cursing the show ever since. We haven't had a Wordy episode in forever and with one show they blow my backstory out of the water. I'd already picked a neighbourhood I thought might work. I wanted something middle-class and suburbanite so I chose L'Amoreaux. The Citizen's got his neighbourhood as a really urban, now thuggish area (What? Jane and Finch? Cabbagetown?). I've already picked out the addresses and locations and schools and such so I'm not going to go back and change it.

Fifthly: Please review! Thanks, you guys are the best.

* * *

Her mother always said the most important thing to know were your own faults. And Michelle Joanne Wooler knew her biggest fault. She did. Half the battle was over, right? It should have been all downhill from there. But it wasn't. Because for Shelley, figuring out that fatal flaw wasn't the most difficult part – it was figuring out what to do about it.

Shelley was used to being the fixer. She fixed things. When her mother would come home, devastated by another fruitless rendezvous with married men she'd soothe and comfort. She held things together when they'd get evicted from another apartment, methodically packing up their things while her mother indulged in exhausting bawling sessions. When her best friend had a pregnancy scare during the 9th grade she'd been the one standing there, squeezing her hand, praying the stick Nancy had stolen from the PharmaPlus read negative. She was the one people leaned on. She wasn't the one who broke.

Maybe that was why it was so difficult to admit that she had failed. She had failed in this marriage. She'd made a mistake – one that couldn't be undone. The vows were taken, the promises made.

She could see now that her biggest fault was her need to be loved. She'd watched the revolving door of relationships with her mother and friends and it wasn't something she wanted. She wanted one man who'd swear to stay by her side for the rest of his life. So maybe when Blake had walked into her life she'd be a little too eager. She had been all of 16, desperate to be loved and terrified of failure. When he'd proposed the day of her high school graduation she wept, unable to speak, and nodded yes.

Lots of people thought she was crazy, chaining herself to a man that early in life. She was young – she should meet men, experience life. But all Michelle wanted was a home. She wanted love. She wanted marriage. She was a smart girl. She could have gone to university. She'd graduated third in her class. Scholarships would have covered tuition. U of T had provided a generous entrance scholarship, when supplemented with her meagre savings from working at the diner after school, could have easily put her through the first couple years.

Their wedding had been small. Not many of her friends liked Blake. He didn't like them all that much either; he thought they were trying to break them up. He accused them of being jealous of their bond. He hated it when Shelley went out with them. He'd sulk and whine, darkly muttering comments about them for days afterwards until she'd just started saying no. No she didn't want to go out – she was tired from work. No she didn't have time for coffee or a movie. No she didn't want to go shopping this weekend. So their wedding had been small. They'd been crazy in love with each other though, so why did anyone else matter?

Crazy being the optimal word, Shelley thought now. Downright fucking crazy she thought as she cowered by the bed watching her husband storm around their small bedroom.

"You fucking BITCH. You think I didn't notice you making eyes at that fucking jackass. I told you not to fucking go to Nancy's. You never fucking LISTEN." He yelled.

She breathed deeply. "Blake, honey. Blake. Calm down. Nancy invited me. I had to go. It was her son's baptism and I'm his godmother."

"You agreed to that? You AGREED? We said you'd say no."

"No, Blake, you said I'd say no. She's my closest friend."

His face contorted with rage. His cheeks were flushed and splotchy. A vein bulged from his temple, shockingly blue against the violent red of his face. His fists were clenched, painfully tightand, not for the first time Shelly was afraid.

"Blake, I didn't flirt with anyone. I barely spoke with anyone other than Nancy." She spoke softly.

"I saw you! I saw with my own eyes when I got there! I saw you looking at him." He lunged across the bed, grabbing her wrist painfully. "You were making a FOOL out of me. Whoring around behind my back."

"NO!" She shouted. She was tired of Blake, and worse, tired of her marriage. He was jealous, he was domineering, and he was constantly pushing away her friends. Normally he was composed in public – he didn't want anyone to see true Blake. But today at Nancy's he'd lost it. And the worst part was, when the storm blew over she'd scurried after him like the quiet little obedient church mouse.

What he said wasn't true. Shelly was too afraid to so much as speak to another man out of fear of one of Blake's outbursts. It had been mere days since his last outburst, and the bruises had only just healed. Her hip still pained where she'd smacked it on the kitchen floor from the fall she'd taken the last time he'd hit her.

Blake grabbed a fist of her blonde hair, dragging it back so she was forced to look up at him. She was accustomed to this. And what would happen next. It was practically a bloody routine. She didn't cry.

She missed the old Shelley. She missed the girl who dreamed of a prince to steal her away. She missed her friends. She missed the freedom she'd known before Blake. But most of all she missed not being afraid. Because she was terrified, more than anything, that somebody would find out what a failure she was. The bright, intelligent young Shelley who'd dreamed of a future full of love and promise was gone. And the new Michelle was weak; she was stupid, she was afraid. And, more than anything, she was a failure: too stupid, ugly, inexperienced, needy and selfish to satisfy her husband, too weak to walk away from her broken marriage.

He snarled, rearing his hand backwards and she prepared herself for the blow.

Practically routine.


	2. Everybody Changes

Shelley was accustomed to her secretive way of life. Fear of anyone finding out ruled her life. Nancy knew. She knew because the first time Blake had hit her two months into their marriage she'd confided in Nancy. Nancy had tended her, iced her puffy black eyes and driven her to the police station and begged her to go inside and file a restraining order. But she couldn't. Blake was her husband. He'd made a mistake but he loved her. She refused to file a complaint. The next day he came to her work and begged her forgiveness. So she went home. And the next time he hit her she didn't tell anyone at all.

To be honest she was ashamed. She'd married a man who hit her. And worse, she stayed throughout it. If she left now everyone would know. And they'd know that she was too stupid and weak to leave him for years. She was trapped.

Shelley hurried through the grocery store, praying that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew. The high neck of her sweater itched where it brushed against her throat. She hated turtlenecks – she'd never worn them until her marriage. Now it seemed like she wore them all year round. In the summer she'd pretend she was cold, wearing long sleeves to cover up her arms where he'd grabbed her and squeezed until she though they'd break. Blake tried to strangle her once, his hands wrapped so hard that the bruises bore an indent of the ring she'd placed upon his finger the day she became his wife.

He'd stopped hitting her in the face, after a pair of cops had been called to their home following a terrible fight. It had taken a lot of persuasion and charm to get the officers to leave, particularly after they'd seen the broken, bloody lip he'd given her. She told them Blake must have been watching his Sylvester Stallone video too loudly – god knew the man loved action movies. They must know how it was, coming home after a long shift and crashing on the couch with a violent action movie and a Budweiser? She'd passed off her bruised lip saying that she'd gotten caught in a snowball-fight between the highschoolers, caught a block of ice to the face. She figured it was more believable than "I fell" or "I ran into a door".

Sometimes things weren't so bad. They'd sit together at night, watching TV and holding hands like they had before. He'd bring her flowers or compliment her cooking. He'd talk about going on a vacation to cottage country. And for those moments he was the same boy she'd fallen in love with at 16. Why couldn't Blake be that person all the time?

It was 4 AM on Wednesday. It was the optimal time to do grocery shopping, as Shelley had discovered, because most of the women she'd once called friends were at home, sleeping before work, or taking their kids to hockey practice. That or they were entertaining their latest conquests after a night at the bar. It was made even better because Blake worked a night-shift at his security-guard gig at the mid-level hotel chain not too far from their home. She had plenty of time to go home, unpack the groceries that needed to be refrigerated, hide the rest and go to bed. She'd ask his permission to go grocery shopping the next day, so when he woke up in the afternoon, exhausted from his all-night shift, she could finish the unpacking. He'd think that she did the grocery shopping that day, with his permission, and be pleased. He hated her to leave the house at night. He hated her to go places without his approval. But she hated people seeing her and pitying her more.

The grocery store was quiet at night. It was empty. The only noise was her cart as she moved through the aisles methodically checking off items on her list, mechanically adding them to the shopping buggy.

She moved through the produce, dismissing bananas (Blake didn't like them), pears (they were soft) and strawberries (too expensive). She tested the weight of the oranges in her palm, wrapping them in a plastic bag and adding them to her cart.

She envied the women who could shop during the day, unafraid of who saw them. She could envision them, frazzled and stressed because their children were holding a temper tantrum in the cereal aisle. Once upon a time she'd wanted children too. She'd dreamed about what it would be like to be pregnant, she'd fantasized about the name's she give her sons and daughters. She thought three was a nice number. Now the thought of bringing somebody else under Blake's tyranny made her shutter. She loved him. But, god, would he hurt their children? Would he beat them like he beat her? She couldn't risk it. He seemed content for the time being, but she was petrified one day he'd come home and demand she go off birth control. She couldn't do it. She had failed her marriage and this was her punishment. She wouldn't force an innocent child to pay that punishment as well.

The faint clipping of footsteps registered. The few other night time shoppers were usually as antisocial as she was.

"Michelle? Michelle Wooler?"

Oh god. Nobody had called her by her maiden name since highschool.

Shelley turned, a bright smile on her face, prepared for the awkward encounter that would undoubtedly ensue. But she turned she was surprised.

"Kev?" She asked, her smile grew. It was a true smile. God, when was the last time she'd truly smiled.

"Yeah, it's Kevin. Man, I haven't seen you in the longest time, Shelley. Seems like years."

"It has been." She replied easily. "Must have been graduation day."

She remember the day perfectly. Kevin Wordsworth had been funny, smart, charming. He was the kind of guy that everyone adored and Shelley genuinely liked him. She sat next to him in the alphabetically-arranged graduation ceremony, thanks to the ever-absent Sarah Worchester. She was jumpy with excitement, nervously ticking the moments away in her head until she was finally free of school. The tiny diamond Blake had given her sitting upon her left finger. Kevin reached over, squeezing her hand. She looked over and he smiled at her. "Nervous?" She nodded her response. "Don't be. It's just a formality." He shrugged his shoulders, flipping the dangling tassel away from his face so he could see her clearly. She beamed a smile at him "It's the beginning of the rest of our lives, Kev," reaching up to adjust the tassel herself. He snatched her hand, staring in disbelief.

"Is that… Are you …" But the principle had called their row so she'd never know what he would have said.

Shelley snapped back to reality. Kev stood before her, casually leaning against the bin of citrus fruits. His hair had been cropped short, much shorter than the shag she'd remembered from high school. His jeans were worn and scuffed, a jacket thrown on in defence from the harsh March winds. He didn't resemble that scraggly, skinny boy she'd known years before, until you looked at the eyes. His eyes were exactly the same.

"I got the invitation for the wedding but I … uhm. … I sent my congratulations." He responded lamely, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. She knew why he hadn't come. Same reason every else hadn't come. They hated Blake. They'd known she was making a bad decision before she did and they didn't want to witness it.

"What are you doing here so late?" She asked.

"I just got off shift. Starved. Came by to stock up before heading back to my apartment. I'm praying the Habs game recorded. I'm still crap with technology" He motioned with his basket which contained oven-ready pizza, salsa, tortilla chips, a box of wings and lucky charms. She couldn't help but surmise that he was undoubtedly single and that he still ate like a teenager fresh off an all-night binge.

"Guess there's no little lady in your life." She commented.

"Not unless you count Sara Lee" he rattled the basket, where a box of Twinkie-like cakes perched, perilously, on top of a loaf of Wonderbread.

She hurried glance at her watch. She had precisely one hour to finish shopping, get home, hide her purchases and crawl into be before Blake would be home.

"Kevin, it was lovely to see you, but I'm afraid I have to run. I need to be home before my husband gets back from work or … uhm…" She stopped herself. Had she let too much slip? It was easy to lose your guard around Kevin. She hoped he didn't notice.

"I didn't notice a car in the lot." Kevin said.

"Oh. Oh, I walked." She responded, moving towards the checkout.

"Really? You live close?" Kevin asked, walking with her towards the late-night cashier.

"Yeah" she lied. _14 blocks isn't really that far_ she justified the lie to herself.

"Why don't you let me drop you off?" He pressed, flashing the cashier a smile as he paid for his groceries.

"I couldn't." She laughed easily, desperately praying he didn't insist. If they neighbours saw and told Blake. Oh God. Oh god.

"It's really not a problem. I insist. It's late for a beautiful woman like yourself to be walking home alone. And it's raining." He motioned cheerfully to the front window where the slanted, freezing rain was pounding the glass. Oh god. When had it started raining?

She made a split decision.

"In that case…" Shelley moved to swing all three bags onto her good arm but Kev had already taken them. His arm brushed her bruised side and she recoiled. Just slightly, but enough that he eased away.

"Something wrong Shell?"

"No. No everything is just fine." She responded, distracting him with what she personally considered her _best _smile. He led the way to his pickup truck waiting in the parking lot. He helped her in, closing the door behind her. Something Blake had stopped doing years ago. He arranged their groceries in the bed of the truck before moving around to slide behind the wheel. As he slowly reversed out of the stall, he glanced over.

"Where do you want me to drop you off?" He asked, adjusting the vents so hot air pumped out.

"Cross between Wintermute and Sandyhook." She, not to obviously she hoped, stretched her hands over the blasts of hot air, lingering as warmth spread to her fingers.

"Jeez Shelley. That's not close. That's a solid 10 blocks."

_Would have been further if I gave you my actual address_ she thought to herself. "I like to walk. And it's not really that bad outside."

"Other than the rising floodwaters and freezing lake-winds?" He responded pleasantly.

"Like I said. Not so bad." She smiled. "It's this house. The brick one on the right." She motioned to a modest house on the left hand side of the street, several metres down. He slowed to a stop. He moved to unbuckle his seat belt, but Shelley had already lept out of the car, swinging her arm up to collect her share of the groceries.

"Thanks for the ride Kevin." She said through the open window.

He leaned over to see her more clearly. "Are you okay Michelle?"

"I'm fine." Rain was slithering down the neck of her jacket, making her shiver. She tried to contain the uncomfortable jerk. "Why do you ask?"

"You just seem different, that's all" He was looking at her. Really looking at her. Like he could see the things she most wanted to keep secret.

"Everybody changes, Kev." She said before turning up the pavement path towards the brick house that was not hers, heart pumping. She prayed he wouldn't wait for her to open the front door. The truck didn't move. She set the bags down on the stoop before lifting a hand in goodbye. With that he finally shifted his red Dodge back into drive and barrelled away, headed for home.

She breathed a sigh of relief before gathering up her purchases and trundling off, soaking wet from the rain, back into the darkness of the street.


	3. The Last Hurrah

"Wait. You saw Kevin Wordsworth. As in Kev. Wordy. KevKev. Wordster. Wordmeister." Nancy asked, bopping Charlie on her hip as she turned the tap on to fill the sink. God, her place was always such a mess now that Charlie was born. She couldn't drag herself away from him to bother with vacuuming and dishes. It all seemed so tedious when she could be spending time with her son.

"I can take him if you want" Shelley eager scrambled out of her seat to relieve Nancy of the struggling infant.

It seemed utterly unfair to Nancy that it would be her surrounded by this crazy, loving family while Shelley … Shelley had less than nobody. Nancy had been the crazy one. The wild one. Since 13 she'd wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life partying. And now she was raising a little boy. She had an amazing husband who loved her despite how screwy she could be. He'd seen her through her worst, and loved her anyway. She wasn't really sure what she'd done to deserve it, but she treasured it.

She had the life Shelley had always wanted, she guiltily thought, adding soap to the water. It wasn't fair. Shelley deserved goddamned MORE than the rat-bastard Blake. She noticed as Shelley eased herself back onto the kitchen chair, holding the wriggling Charlie in her arms. She sighed. She'd watched Shelley's friends fall away since her marriage. She'd seen the bruises blossom and fade. She'd watched her beautiful friend, so lively and smart, turn inward. Start to blame herself.

"God Shelley. Did he hit you again?" She asked. She couldn't help the tone of disgust in her voice.

"Nancy. Don't start" Shelley replied.

There was a moment of silence. "Shelley. You've got to leave him. You know you do. Because one day he's not going to stop. And he's going to kill you. And, baby, I love you."

Shelley closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Shell, but I just … I want you to be happy." Nancy sighed when Shelley said nothing.

"He looked good." Shelley said suddenly, in what she hoped wasn't too obvious an attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah?" Nancy turned back to the sink to scour last night's mountain of pots and dishes.

"Sure. He looks … different but the same. Same good of Kev. I ran into him at the grocery store. I thought you guys stayed in touch after highschool? Why wasn't he at Charlie's baptism?"

"He had training so he couldn't make it. But his mother was there, and his sister too actually. Mrs. Wordsworth gave Charlie the baby quilt."

"The green one?" Shelley asked. "Mrs. Wordsworth. She's an intimidating woman."

"God, tell me about it. She scares the crap out of me." Nancy laughed. "She sees through you like … she can see every bad thing you've ever done. I'm sure she rests easy knowing that Kevin and I never hooked up."

"You didn't? Really?" Shelley had always thought the two of them had a thing.

"God no. He's a good guy. Definitely not my type." Nancy snorted, stacking dishes in the drying tray. "Not my type in high school anyway. No drugs, no copious drinking until he blacked out, no motorcycles, no 10 year age gap, no criminal record. He was practically Jesus in comparison to most guys I dated." Shelley laughed. Nancy did have notoriously awful taste in men until her marriage.

"And he had eyes from somebody else." Nancy commented, running a soapy dish under the faucet.

"Really?" Shelley asked, her voice pitching. Her heart was, for some unknown reason, racing. "Who?"

Nancy looked over her shoulder, incredulously. "Really Shelley?" She sighed when Shelley's puzzled gaze met hers. It seemed well-known to everyone else, but Shelley was surprisingly oblivious when it came to men.

Kevin had harboured a major crush on Shelley through their four years at the Mac Secondary School. But Kevin was a nice guy. He was a shy guy. The kind of guy you called when your car broke down, or your lousy boyfriend ditched you at a truck stop on the 401. Unfortunately for Kevin, once Shelley hooked up with Blake she only had eyes for him.

_Nancy pulled her 74' Toyota Celica into the darkness of the open cornfield. Some farmer was going to be pissed tomorrow, she thought, drumming her inch-long pointed nails against the duct-taped steering wheel. She parked her vehicle between the rows of the similarly beat-up second hands cars and trucks, surveying the hoardes of people ahead. Graduation party – the last hurrah, so to speak. _

_Middle of fucking nowhere, she thought, glancing around at the dark field. All Jimmy Logan's fault too. They were supposed to have the after-grad in the park, but Logan had squealed to his civic-minded-straight-edge parent who'd warned city officials. So they'd had to drive nearly an hour outside the goddamn city, beyond the edge of nowhere to this spit of farmland._

_Students gathered around a massive bonfire throwing textbooks, undoubtedly school property, on the fire cheering with every addition. People drank out of red keg cups, furiously making out with people they'd likely never see again. A circle of people were forming around two dark figures punching and rolling across the ground, blearily cheering on the fighters._

_She wasn't entirely sure why she was there. Nancy hated most of the people at Mac. She'd only graduated due to Shelley and a clever bit of blackmailing. It turned out that factoring wasn't the only thing Mr Freestone, her math teacher, had been doing with Miss-Aren't-I-Perky-Bethany Larson. And after threatening to go to his wife, pregnant with their third, with the news of his infidelity he'd caved and upgraded her F to a respectable C+. She supposed the idea of being homeless, jobless and probably thrown in jail for statutory rape didn't appeal to the slimy asshole. So she's scrapped up enough credits to get her diploma. She should have been thrilled, but somehow the news of Shelley's engagement had put a damper on the evening. Nancy rolled her shoulders. Hell, who cares. She was there tonight and there was a party, free alcohol and lots of attractive male specimens to keep her entertained._

_Fixing her blood-red lipstick in the rear-view mirror, she swung out of the car on teetering heels, long legs stretching up to a miniscule faux-leather miniskirt, the crimson colour a perfect match for her lips. The rocky and pitching farmland was NOT condusive to her towering heels but didn't really care though. She wanted to look hot – maybe create some final home-wrecking drama before their graduating class dispersed forever. Bethany's boyfriend Matt was there, and, damn, wasn't he fine?_

"_Nancy!" She sighed to herself. That nasal voice could only be one person. "Nancy!"_

_Nancy swung around, planting her feet and fisting her hands on her hips. "What do you want?" She asked unkindly. She wanted a beer and a man. Not to stand her gabbing with the dorky Rebecca Miller, top of her class, headed to McGill next September. Unlike her, who'd be staying right here going nowhere in life. She pushed those thoughts out of her head. Nancy rummaged through her purse, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. The severely asthmatic Rebecca would be dispatched in no time.._

"_Where's Shelley?" Rebecca asked, dancing a little, bopping about as if searching for a cleaner patch of air._

"_I dunno. Probably with her fiancé." She sneered inwardly. Blake. What a douchebag. Hell, Blake was the freaking king of douchebags._

_Rebecca coughed twice. "I just thought … Kevin's here." She finished lamely, choking again on the fumes from Nancy's cigarette._

"_Yeah? I think almost everyone's here." She said scanning the crowd. She wasn't sure if she was surprised or not. She guiltily lowered her cigarette, moving back a pace. _

"_He's really inebriated." Rebecca said, gratefully sucking in air._

"… _And that means?" Nancy was suddenly reminded of why she didn't like Rebecca, or the other nerdy kids at their high school._

"_Intoxicated. Drunk." Rebecca added, dramatically flaring her hands_

"_I think a LOT of people here are drunk." Nancy gazed over Rebecca's head to where Tiffany Lutz and Melissa Chang were sloppily exchanging kisses to the delight of Tiffany's boyfriend and the entire basketball team._

"_This is different." Rebecca insisted. "I think he needs help." She motioned in the direction of a group of people._

_Though she desperately craved a beer, Nancy figured she could take the time to check on her buddy Kevin first. After all. He'd do it for her. She glanced back at the still unoccupied Matthew before sauntering sexily in the direction Rebecca had indicated, sending him her most seductive smile over her shoulder._

_When she finally set her attention to the group she stopped dead. The usually fair-minded Kevin was currently exchanging blows with the school's linebacker, Bradley Williams. The times Kevin did drink he was a happy, mellow drunk. He was a goofy, sociable drunk whose main assaults were launched against your plate of Nachos. He wasn't violent or miserable or mean like her own father. Her father was a huge asshole, second only to the controlling monster Shelley was hell-bent on marrying._

_Nancy hurried forward, cursing the heels which stuck in the furrowed ground. She pushed through the crowds of people, wincing when she heard the crack of a solid jab to the face._

"_KEVIN!" She yelled, finally at the front of the pack. He didn't hear her._

_She called again, louder, but he again ignored her, driving his fist into Brad's stomach, rolling over to punch him again in the face. Brad's head fell back sharply against the soil, eyes glazed. One of Bradley's equally enormous friends eagerly jumped forward, trying to haul the enraged Kevin off Brad's prone form. Struggling, he elbowed him sharply in the ribs, turning his rage against his new opponent. Seizing the opportunity Nancy sprang forward, grabbing Kevin's arm before he could swing again._

_Brad's friends pulled their moaning friend back through the dissipating crowd who headed back to the keg for refills._

"_Come on, Kev. Up we get." Nancy said, slinging her arm around his waist and trying to heave them off the ground. "Yup, that's good. Feet in front of the other doll." She said, leading him away from the mob of people and the fire, back towards her car. "Might be time to leave, Wordster."_

_He pitched, balance shot to hell by the liquor. His queasy stomach rolled and his body ached from the hard ground of Brad's angry blows. He had a dark sense of satisfaction from winning. Nancy hitched her arms higher, steering him around to her passenger side door, easing him down onto the seat. She hurried around the hood, slipping behind the wheel and reversing them back onto the hard-packed road._

"_What did Bradley say?" She said, adjusting her rear view mirror so she could see him more clearly._

"_Rear view mirrors are for seeing cars behind you." He muttered, scowling as he tried to stretch out his long legs in the cramped interior._

"_This is the boonies, Kev. There ARE no other cars. What's the matter with you? You don't get in fights, Wordy, you break them up."_

"_Maybe I got a little sick of being the fucking peacemaker" he grumpily replied, hands fisting again._

"_Well I'd appreciate it if you kept from getting your face bashed in. It happens to be one of my favourites." She patted his forearm. They were approaching the exit to the 401 – Nancy chose the east exit. She wasn't about to bring Kev back to the Wordsworth residence smelling like a pub floor. Mrs. Wordsworth scared the every-loving Christ out of her. She was content to drive – until morning if she had too. Clear both their heads._

_Gunning her car into the merge lane Nancy's stomach sank with the sudden realized of what it was that sent Wordy over the edge. He'd seen it, then: the pitiful knock-off that Blake had presented to Shelley that morning. He'd seen the promise she'd made to marry the son of a bitch._

"_Kevin, you're like my brother. I care about you." She sighed heavily._

_Nobody said anything. The country whipped by, the sweet spring air whistled through the cracked windows._

"_She's going to marry him." He said at last. "She's engaged. She's getting married."_

"_I know. I don't like it either but she won't be satisfied unless she makes her own choices." Nancy rubbed her chest – her heart hurt for him and for Shelley and maybe a little for herself._

Nancy couldn't betray Kevin's trust. She looked to Shelley, currently cradling her precious Charlie. She wanted to. God knew Kevin would be better for Shelley than Blake would have been. He would have loved her like she deserved.

Nancy turned back to the sudsy sink once more. "Rebecca Miller." She finally answered.

"_What?_" Shelley gaped. _"Rebecca Miller?"_


	4. An Honest Woman

Authors Note: I deleted the last chapter and re-uploaded it. There were some slightly embarrassing spelling mistakes that I wanted to fix. In the future will proof-read BEFORE uploading the chapter.

Just saw the promo for next week and, … OMG I can't wait for Friday. The suspense is chipping away at my soul. Like, I can't contain how freaking excited I am for the next episode.

Kay, Back to the story now.

* * *

The raw March winds gave way to the softening rain showers of April, and eventually the cheery blossoms of May. Those few weeks between spring and summer were Shelley's favourites. The sun was warm – not the blistering, burning heat of August, when the city would start to smell and she'd be miserably hot in her long-sleeved t-shirts. It was a gentle, embracing warmth.

Shelley planted a garden of lilacs and daisies and roses in their backyard. Blake had been promoted and was now working full time on security detail at the hotel, meaning he pulled more shifts, leaving Shelley to do as she pleased. She liked the garden best just after the sun set, the smells of the flowers mingling in the dusky air.

Blake's moods had improved vastly with the weather. He rarely came home angry anymore, and their goods days far outnumbered the bad. But still the fear her, relentlessly following her through each day. The knowledge that their marriage was a lie was constantly lurking there, in the back of her mind..

The May two-four weekend rolled around and Blake had again pulled the holiday detail. He whined and complained about it that morning, but Shelley had appeased him by promising not to leave the house and cooking him a hearty breakfast. He'd been gone approximately 23 minutes when Nancy's car pulled up in the driveway, Charlie's car seat secured in the back.

"I promised him I wouldn't." Shelley glanced anxiously up the road. If Blake had forgotten anything he'd back within minutes. She couldn't afford to go herring off. He'd been in such a fine mood lately.

Nancy leaned heavily against the door. "Yeah? Well he's not here is he? Besides I need moral backup for this and Brian's not here. He's loving the stat-pay for the holiday weekend."

"It's just a parade, Nance, it's not surgery."

"Last time I was at the Victoria day parade by myself I flashed the principle of the school, the mayor, the board of trustees, the local MP, Wordy's Mom, your mom, my mom, and just about everybody in L'Amoreaux. I was banned from May-two-four for life. Now Brian wants me to bring Charlie, take pictures of him with the clowns and freaky mascot figures. I don't feel like explaining another incident from my sordid past so I've got to go, which kinda means, as my best friend, you have to come too."

"You were 15 and hell-bent on getting expelled so you could run off to Montreal with Hawk. It's a community parade. You're a new-mom. You're not going to get in trouble."

Nancy grimaced at the memory. "It'll be a lot of fun. There'll be corndogs. You can protect me from Bethany Larson"

"Bethany who?"

"Larson. Blonde. Blue eyed. 5'2. Former cheerleader. She may or may not still be holding a grudge about me breaking her and Matt up."

"You made out with Matt? Christ Nance, who didn't you kiss?"

"No. I told him about Beth and Math-teach and he rightly dumped her ass. Unfortunately he also dumped her ass on her birthday. Which was also the same day that she was leaving for UWO. She's on today's organizational committee."

"Christ Nancy." Shelley sullenly resigned herself to her fate, methodically collecting her purse and coat before joining Nancy in her car.

The streets near the park were jammed with both cars and people. The park itself was teeming with tents and stalls. People were lining lawn chairs down both sides of the street, awaiting the parade. Children, faces smeared with paints or ice cream, gathered in grounds, sprawling on the sidewalk, eager with anticipation.

Shelley set up the two lawn chairs from Nancy's trunk while Nance slathered Charlie in sunscreen, attempting to affix a floppy white hat to his head. The first floats began to roll by, littering streamers. The high school's marching band was accompanied by a fleet of baton-twirling girls in what Shelley supposed would be considered a rather modest version of a cheerleader's uniform. They all looked so young and fresh faced – had she every looked that young? She certainly never remembered feeling that young. One caramel-skinned girl in a doll costume handed her a flower as the procession passed by, which Charlie took a great interest in, gargling with delight over the limp daisy. Munching on her third corndog, Shelley watched floats and teams continued to roll on, figures waving from their perches aboard pirate ships and hay wagons. Then came the part Shelley hated most: the contingency of grotesque and freaking clowns.

She personally found the clowns who towered about on stilts the most terrifying. She averted her eyes, shielding them against the sun. Who the hell liked clowns anyway? Charlie certainly didn't, burying his head in his mother's chest, letting his displeasure be known through a rare but loud wail.

"Shit." Nancy muttered, bouncing Charlie in her lap. Shelley waved the daisy, now mangled by Charlie's sticky fingers, to try to distract him. But Charlie's cry had clearly attracted the attention of the infamous and intolerable Bethany Larson. Shaking back her stream of blond hair the woman quickly strode across the road, cutting off a man on a unicycle. He barely managed to maintain his balance, honking his red horn in her direction.

"Nancy Palowski." Bethany sneered.

"It's Jamieson now." Shelley interjected. Bethany glanced over at her in a clear mark of disapproval before turning her lethal stare back to Nancy.

"Yes, indeed. I heard somebody made an honest woman out of you. I can only hope he knows what a lightskirt you are. Well. Knowing you he probably enjoys it. I can't personally imagine what kind of man would enjoy being married to somebody who's had such a … prolific history of lovers."

"Don't be so kind Betsy. Tell me what you really think of me." Nancy rolled her eyes. If she'd been 15 she probably would have thrown herself on the bitch, clawing her eyes out pulling her hair until she cried for mercy. But she was a mother now. And that it really wasn't an option. Not that she wouldn't have enjoyed it.

Bethany gritted her teeth at being called Betsy. She hated being forgotten or ignored. She was class president, the co-captain of the cheerleading squad. She'd edited the yearbook, ensuring that she was in as many pictures as possible. She wasn't somebody that people FORGOT. She hated being mistaken or dismissed and Nancy knew it.

"You're not welcome here."

"Hey, now, it's a community event Beth, and Nancy and I are members of the community." Shelley rose to her feet so she was eye to eye with Bethany.

"Nobody's forgotten about the little incident. She's got a lifetime ban." Bethany crossed her arms. "You're welcome to stay, but I'm afraid you're going to have to leave Nancy. You wouldn't want me to call the police security. I'm sure your _husband_ wouldn't be too pleased about that."

"Oh for God's sake Beth, that was years ago. I think most people have forgotten. Or at least forgiven and moved on. You're the only one holding a goddamned grudge." Nancy shifted the figdgety Charlie.

"I think you'd better leave. Wouldn't want me to … slip to your husband that rumors have been circulating over the paternity of your son." Nancy sneered.

"Are you KIDDING me?" Shelley laughed. "Oh, that's ridiculous and petty. Brian knows that Nancy's been faithful. Get over yourself. You're just miserable. Miserable, pathetic and jealous. Don't snort Bethany, it's unattractive – and you know it's true. You're jealous. Because Nancy's happily married with a family. And you? You are all, all, alone. No husband. No kids. Nobody who loves you. I'm not even sure people LIKE you to be honest." Shelley hotly defended her friend.

"I doubt the police would hold a teenager's poor behaviour against them almost 8 years after the fact." Shelley stated. She plopped back down onto the sidewalk.

Nancy couldn't help but hope that somebody Blake got to be on the receiving end of Shelley's sharp tongue. It was sad how quick she'd leap in to defend a friend, but how reluctant she was to defend herself.

Bethany merely sputtered.

"Is there a problem here." A calm, deep voice asked. A strangely familiar one with a cop-like tone. Shelley froze, her heart stopped beating altogether for a moment. Two polished back shoes came into her vision. Cop shoes. She followed the line of the blue cop trousers up to a black armoured vest of a city officer. Oh no. No. No no no no.

"Not at all Officer Wordsworth." Bethany simpered, grazing her hand up his arm. "I was just reminding Nancy that she's not allowed to be at the May-Day festivities. She has a lifetime ban. And we simply must uphold the rules in these cases, don't you agree _Officer _Wordsworth?" She sent Nancy and Shelley a triumphant smirk.


	5. Ball and Chain

_Officer Wordsworth? _Shelley thought, her mind was a mess of chaos and panic. It seemed almost deliriously funny. Of _COURSE _Kevin would be a police officer. Of course. It was so quintessentially Kevin. And so completely unfortunate for her.

Wordy slowly disentangled himself, a surprisingly difficult task. "Sure. And as a member of law enforcement I also believe in things like clemency and parole based on good behaviour." He managed to shrug Bethany's hands off.

'And this little man must be the Charlie I've heard so much about." He said, easily taking the baby from Nancy, hoisting him up the air so Charlie wriggled with delight. "As much as it pains me to say, because, lets be honest, you're definitely the more attractive half of the ball-and-chain routine, but he looks exactly like you're husband."

Bethany huffed in aggravation and disappointment before storming back across the road to her unmanned station.

He bounced the wiggling infant, clearly adept with children. After all, he had what seemed to be a burgeoning number of nieces and nephews. "Finishing up my crowd control duties when I saw you hogging these two pretty ladies. Couldn't let that happen, now could I." Charlie's lopsided smile grew as Kevin spoke to him.

"I only caught the tail end of that. I hope Bethany didn't bother you, Nance. She's really got it in for you." He said, settling Charlie on his hip. Nancy shrugged. "She's completely mental. Totally off her rocker. Way out of line."

He glanced back to Shelley. She'd been a sight defending Nancy, eyes shooting fire. For a minute she'd been the sassy, beautiful teenager he remembered from his high school days. From before she'd ever even met Blake. He missed that Michelle. She'd been so sweet and funny. The Shelley sitting before him, however, looked shocked. She looked downright terrified. Her eyes were massive and completely blank, staring deadly, woodenly ahead. He leaned towards her slightly, shifting his weight so he could see her face more clearly, but Shelley recoiled immediately.

"Shelley?" He asked, voice edged with concern.

Shelley didn't hear him – she could only see the uniform and shudder inwardly. Shelley's heart was pounding, a fierce and rapid rhythm. Kevin was a cop. The thought terrified her. Blake had told her once that if she ever went to the cops he'd kill her. Every time those white sedans pulled up in front of the house she was paralyzed with fear. She'd shake in the doorway, head resting against the heavy wooden frame before pulling herself together enough to smile and charm and convince them nothing was wrong. She'd pretend that her husband wasn't a monster who beat her. Sometimes they bought it, but by now they were beginning to look at her with pity, frustration and concern.

"Shelley?" She heard Kevin say her name again but she couldn't look him in the eyes.

"I … I feel a headache coming on. I'm going to walk home Nancy." She lamely excused herself, dashing off.

Kevin watched her hurry off, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Slowly he turned back to Nancy. "What the hell just happened?" The baffled Nancy rose to her feet, eyes also firmly glued to Shelley's rapidly retreating form. "I have no clue." She replied earnestly.

* * *

Sorry guys – it's a short one. And because I've been procrastinating from school like its my job, probably the last one until the weekend, so, you know. Enjoy and review. Thanks for reading 3


	6. One for the Road

Kevin pulled up in front of the small house, rubbing his gritty eyes. He was just off a double-shift and, at the moment he couldn't decide what he wanted more: shower or sleep. He wondered absently why they hadn't invented a way to do both yet.

But the incident last week weighed heavily on his mind. Shelley had bolted off. He'd somehow managed to spook her – she'd looked downright terrified. He hated that she'd looked at him like that. He hated that she thought of him as scary.

Sighing he strode up to the front door, determined to settle it.

He knocked twice, pausing between raps to yawn enormously.

A mountain of a man answered the door, leaned against the jamb and sneered.

"Yer look like shit, Kev." He said by way of greeting.

"Nice to see you too, Bri" He grinned back.

"Whaddaya at today, b'y? You coming in from breakfast? Luv's making grandies" His face was split by an enormous smile.

"I had hoped that perhaps your beautiful wife would run away with me today, but I suppose I could settle for breakfast." He laughed, following Brian through the house into the Kitchen.

Nancy stood in front of a sizzling stove. She glanced over. "Thought I heard a car pull in. Coffee?" Kevin could have wept with gratitude as she reached automatically for a mug and the coffee pot, filling it and passing it him. "Breakfast'll be on the table in 10 minutes." She moved deftly around the kitchen, cracking more eggs into a warmed skillet.

Kevin contently settled himself into a chair at the table taking the first glorious sip of caffeine. Perfect.

"And what do we owe the pleasure of this visit it?" Nancy asked, eyes focused on the stove.

"Shift ended. You're on the way home." He shrugged, taking another gulp of his black coffee.

"No we're not. We're in the opposite direction." She remarked. Brian snickered.

"Well I made in on my way home." He sent her a winning smile. He tried to slyly change the subject. "Parade day was hectic. I got to confiscate three six-packs from minors and escorted one particularly inebriated 9th grade home to his disapproving parents. And deal with the fire-breathing bitch Bethany for the rest of the afternoon about your 'altercation'. Have you seen Shelley lately?"

At the stove Nancy worriedly bit her lip before recomposing her face as she turned to face him. "No actually I haven't. She's been really busy lately." Shelley had been supposed to come the day before but hadn't showed. It wasn't completely unusual, but it general meant that Blake was up to his tricks again.

It really killed Nancy. Blake would never appreciate Shelley for the kind, smart, funny person she was. But she couldn't tell Kevin about what Blake did. Because Shelley would never forgive her. Kevin would want to protect. That's the way he was. But unless Shelley chose to leave, she'd take him back. She'd go back. She wouldn't press charges.

She readied the plates, using her well-honed waitressing skills to balance the dishes as she brought them over to the table.

She finally replied as they began to eat. "Nope. She's been really busy lately though."

"I ain't seen Shelley in weeks." Bri said through a mouth of scrambled eggs. "'Ow's she getting on, b'y?"

Nancy shrugged. "Okay I guess. Her husband got a promotion. Her mom's still out west with the guy she met last fall. Probably the longest relationship she's been in since Shelley was born." She fiddled with her fork.

"I don't like that 'usband of hers." Brian grunted, devouring his ketchup-smeared eggs.

"Nobody does." Nancy said, absently leaning over to pass Brian a napkin. She looked up, noticed Kevin had stopped eating.

"Nobody?" Kevin asked incredulously.

"Well I'm sure Shelley likes him." Nancy said feebly.

"He's a wheel, that one. Something off about him." Brian noted, shoving the last link of sausage into his mouth. "Delicious, luv." He got up from the table, depositing his dirty dishes in the sink. "I gots to get going or I'll be late and the boss'll have me arse."

He leaned in giving Nancy a smacking kiss on the lips. "Good care of Charlie, ya hear?" Nancy giggled. A very un-Nancy sound in Kevin's opinion. Brian leaned in again. "Maybe just one fer the road." And with that he left, whistling as he strode out the front door.

Brian stared after him. "Christ Nancy, he gets harder to understand by the day. Trust you to marry a Newf. I mean. What the hell is a grandies?" Nancy laughed, shaking back her hair.

"Grandies are pancakes. I know. I know. Scary thing is I'm starting to understand sometimes." It was surprising how much she loved him. She couldn't believe it sometimes. This crazy, engulfing love that she had for the man.

They finished breakfast in a comfortable silence.

Kevin wasn't sure whether he should breach the subject again. Nancy had shied away from it last time. As close as they were he couldn't dent the relationship she had with Shelley – Nance would never betray her trust. And apparently telling him what had set her off that day would have been a breach of Nancy and Shelley's friendship. He was still wondering if he should bring it up when the front door opened.

"Nancy?" Shelley's voice called.

Nancy looked panicked for a second. She composed herself almost instantly but Kevin had seen it. Something strange was happening here.

"In the Kitchen, doll." _With Kevin _she mentally added.

Shelley hurriedly advanced through to the kitchen. She was careully replacing her keys in the inner pocket of her purse, which was why she didn't see Kevin until she'd already entered the room.

Far too late for retreat.

_Crap. _She thought. Her eyes darted between Kevin, Nancy and the door. _Crap._

Had the swelling gone down enough? Had her makeup smudged in the car? Were the bangs she'd hacked any use at concealing the puffy, bruised eye? She thought that the healing had proceeded quiet nicely, but what if he noticed? He was a cop – he was trained to notice. She carefully angled her face away from Kevin.

"Oh hey. I didn't know .. that you had a guest. I can … I can come back later." She said, slowly edging for the door.

Just then, as if in on the conspiracy, Charlie set up a wail from the crib in the nursery.

_Salvation! _ Shelley thought. "I can get him!" She said a little too eagerly.

"Hm. I don't think so." Nancy responded, moving past Shelley with lightening speed. "That's a hungry cry and I'm afraid you're not equipped to deal with the hungry-cry at the moment." She sped off down the hall.

Shelley and Kevin stood in the kitchen, awkwardly waiting for the other to speak. Should they just forget that the day had ever happened? What to say, what to say.

"So. Uh. You feeling better these days?" Kevin asked, bringing his hand up to run his fingers over his short hair.

Shelley struggled against the instinctive flinch. She didn't see Kevin her gentled friend. She just saw the raised fist. She breathed slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah. I feel fine."

The awkward pause was longer this time. The only sound was the gurgling of Charlie down the hall.

"I better go. Nancy's busy and … stuff." Shelley ended lamely. She began to blush. Sweat beaded under the collar of her turtleneck sweater. She hurried out the door.

Kevin was surprised with how quick she was but even with the headstart she'd only made it out the front door when he caught up to her. Careful not to touch her he skirted in front of her, walking backwards as she strode towards her car.

"Listen, Shelley. I don't know what I've done to make you mad or angry or uncomfortable or whatever it is that you are. But … I'd like us to be friends. We were friends once. I'm not so bad, really. A little hard on the eyes, but otherwise most people think I'm not so bad." He was trying to make her laugh. It had been a while since a man had tried to make her laugh. She couldn't help but give a small smile.

"We're living in the same community, got the same friends…." He trailed off.

Shelley felt suddenly ashamed. Kevin wasn't like Blake. And Kevin wasn't the faceless police officer that came by their house sullenly and disbelievingly listening to her spin her lies. They disapproved. She could tell. They thought she was too weak, too stupid. Maybe she was. But it wasn't Wordy's fault. Somehow she'd stopped seeing Kevin for the gentle, kind person he was and had started seeing him as a threat. As somebody who could bring her whole charade down on her. And it was wrong.

She reached over, tentatively bracing her hand on his arm. "I know. We can be friends. I just had a bad that – that's all. The whole thing with Bethan kind of sent me over the edge." She smiled, easing back. "I should go though. I just dropped by to say hi." She dropped into her car, revving the ignition and drove away, leaving Kevin in the driveway staring after her.

_Something really fishy is going down here._ He thought, turning on his heel to go back inside and interrogate Nancy. She knew more than she was letting on.


	7. Here Comes the Sun

**AN: I lol'd at the facebook reference.**

**I re-watched "Asking for Flowers" yesterday (because it's, like one of my favourite episodes. Badass Sam trying to swim, Spike's grumblings about water, Ed picking a fight with Wordy, Badass Wordy emotion-ninja'ing the abused wife into admitting her husband was a douche – major luff). And I realized that I severely screwed up the timeline. D: Oops?**

**Additionally. My sister tells me I swear too much in this story. Should I tone it down? I dunno, I kinda feel like that's how the characters interact, but if it's bothering you let me know.**

**Coolio. Where were we? Ah yes.**

She hadn't even seen it coming. She'd been at the stove cooking dinner when he'd walked in. It had been such a good week. On Monday they'd strolled down to the park, holding hands. They ate ice cream for heaven's sake. He picked flowers from the city gardens, he'd joked and smiled and she'd almost felt like she had when she was 16 and falling in love.

Shelley had no reason to think that Thursday was going to be a bad day. She'd waved him off for his day-shift at 7:45 and he'd been in a good mood.

She hadn't heard him come in – she hadn't been keeping track of time, she supposed. It was nearly 5 pm, and she was bringing the tomato sauce to a boil. She was making cannellini – one of his favourites. The Beatles was blaring from the radio on the counter.

She could sense his presence though. Whirling she plastered on a generous smile. "Dinner will be ready in just a few …" But she trailed off.

His feet were braced apart, shoulders heaving with each laboured breath. His hair was standing in spikes on his head, his tie loosened, the arms of the dress shirt she'd ironed just that morning haphazardly rolled up to the sleeves. His face was a deep red, sweat beading across his forehead.

"Blake?" She said, instinctively stepping back. And she still didn't see it coming.

He stalked into the kitchen, knocking over a chair, swiping his hand across the table sending the vase of flower's he'd picked for her hurtling into the wall. He shoved her hard. She fell back against the counter. Somehow she managed to regain her balance.

"Please, Blake." She whimpered as he grabbed her wrists, hauling her to him. He shook her violently. She felt like a rag doll. Her head snapped forward. She frantically thought: _what did I do? What did I do?_ His eyes, angry and spiteful, bored down at her. Letting her go abruptly Shelley staggered back.

There was a moment when she thought it was over. He stood two paces in front of her, whole body shaking with rage. Her side, which had slammed against the hard counter, was aching. But he didn't move. She hoped he would storm off now, like he did after his outbursts. Go to the bar, blow a pay check on alcohol, and get loaded. So long as he let her alone.

_Here comes the sun,_

_Here comes the sun,_

_And I say it's all right_

She saw it flash in his eyes, though. He wasn't done. He wasn't nearly done. She turned to flee, dashing towards the front door. She skidded across the floor in the hallway, slipping into the wall. She could hear him charging behind her. She slammed the kitchen door shut behind her – she could hear him howl in pain and it smacked him.

Her hands were wrapped around the handle of the front door when she was violently wrenched away. His blow sent her sprawling to the floor. He pulled her again, this time by the hair, to smack her back down. When she didn't rise he kicked her. Again and again.

It wasn't satisfying for him, though. It was better when she fought back. He gave her a final kick as Shelley desperately tried to curl away from his attack. He sneered. _ Pitiful_.

That's when she lashed out. She caught his knee with her foot, knocking his feet out from under him, sending him to the ground. She desperately launched herself for the front door. If only she could get outside. If only.

With blood-slicked hands she grappled with the door, tugging. It wouldn't let. It was the lock. Oh god, the lock. She frantically fumbled with the lever, unlocking the door. She managed to pull open the door several inches before Blake fell on top of her, rolling them end over end. The door weakly eased shut.

Blake's hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing.

_And I say it's all right_

She closed her eyes and blacked out.


	8. Fix This

**AN: I waffled on this chapter. Because I kinda wanted Wordy to save her as well. But there are some other things I want to happen first.**

When Shelley awoke she was alone, lying slumped against the wall in the foyer. Her whole body ached – her head, her back, her sides, her arms. She was so tired. She couldn't muster the energy to move. She almost wished she were dead and that the nightmare would finally end.

She waited, holding her breath. She didn't hear his footsteps, his breathing, his snoring.

She pulled herself to her feet. Her legs nearly buckled out from beneath her. Clutching at the wall for support she pulled herself along the hall. The car was gone – so Blake had opted for the bar after all.

She mechanically moved back to the kitchen. The sauce was smoking on the stove. She woodenly reached to turn it off, shifting the ruined pot from the stove to the sink.

She caught her reflection in the window above the sink. A swollen eye, a puffy jaw. Blood tricked from her hairline, smeared across her cheek. Bruises were already forming along her throat, a clear indentation of Blake's hands. She reached up instinctively to stroke the tender flesh.

Oh god. What had she allowed herself to become?

She snatched up the phone, hesitating briefly before punching in the number with shaky fingers. It rang so many times that Shelley nearly hung up.

"Nancy?" Her voice was small and hoarse. "Nancy, I need you to come get me."

* * *

Nancy raced through town, easily breezing through a red light in her hurry. She wanted to find Blake and found on him. She wanted to kick him and scream and pull his hair – she wanted to hurt him like he hurt Shelley. But she needed to get to Shelley and make sure she was okay. She needed to get Shelley away. It didn't matter anymore what Shelley wanted. If she didn't leave he was going to kill her. She couldn't afford to loser her best friend. Shelley was her _sister_.

She whipped her car into the driveway, jumping out of the car without turning off the ignition. She raced towards the house, pulling open the unlocked door.

"Shell?" She called. Oh god. There was blood. So much blood. On the wall, the floor, the door. Glass from a broken lamp was scattered across the tile floor. "Shelley" she called louder, her heart pounding with fear. Had he killed her? Oh god.

There was a long trail of blood along the wall, as if somebody had used it for support. Nancy fearfully followed it to the kitchen door. It was open, sitting off its hinges; a burnt smell wafted from the room. A chair lay upturned on the ground, a sad bunch of battered flowers lay amidst the ruins of a broken vase. No sign of Shelley. She staggered back into the hall.

"Shell?" She peered into the empty bedroom, the vacant livingroom. God where was she? She tried the bathroom door. It held firm beneath her hand. "Shell? Shelley are you in there."

She heard a muffled sob from within. The lock on the door slowly turned. Nancy took a deep, steadying breath before pushing the door inward.

She stumbled back with surprise, cursing under her breath.

"I thought he'd come back. I heard the car and thought he came back." Shelley said, haltingly.

"Oh god, Shell. What has he done to you?" Nancy moved forward. Shelley flinched away, but Nancy pretended not to notice. She gently stroked her bruised face, like a mother would a child. "Shhhh. We're going to fix this. It's going to be okay." She spun around, rooting through the drawers for a clean washcloth. She dampened it, turning back to gently wipe away the blood. There was a nasty gash across her forehead into her hair. It appeared to be the source of the worst of the bleeding. There were also cuts on her hands where she'd stuck herself on the glass when trying to crawl away from Blake. Nancy mumbled soothing words – mostly "It's going to be okay" over and over again, while trying to wipe away the worst of the damage.

Shell's right eyes was swelling enormously. Blood stained the collar of her shirt and the knees of her jeans. Her sleeve was ripped, hanging from the shoulder by a few threads. Massive bruises marred her throat.

"We've got to go to the hospital. We've got to tell the police Shell."

Shelley closed her eyes. She couldn't go on like this anymore. "Yes." Was all she said.


	9. Stick By Your Man

**AN: I wasn't going to post this until tomorrow, when I'd had a chance to edit it … But then I made the realization that Shelley and Wordsworth were both major 19****th**** century English Romantic poets. Even though most of you probbbbably figured this out two season ago it was pretty exciting for me.**

Shelley was incredibly nervous. She had a job interview in twenty minutes at the diner where Nancy worked. She looked at herself in the mirror, examining her reflection. The floral blouse, borrowed from Nancy, gaped a bit. Whereas once they'd been the same size, Shelley was now to skinny to fit Nancy's clothes properly – she'd lost too much weight since marrying Blake. It was just stress, though. She'd gain it back. She sincerely hoped she would, as she rather missed her old body.

The bruises on her face were no longer a motley shade of green. The swelling had faded. And, best of all, Nancy was a genius was make-up. A complete genius. You couldn't tell that underneath the ivory foundation and concealer was a web of olive and purple bruises. Nothing could be done to mask the stitches, but Shelley pulled her hair in front of them. They weren't that noticeable under her heavy bangs.

Shelley plopped back down on the motel bed. She'd insisted on getting a room there. It was cheap – within her budget. It wasn't spectacular – the mattress was hard and Shelley wasn't really sure the room had ever seen a proper cleaning. But it was safe. It was beyond Blake's reach. And she didn't want to be dependant on Nancy and Bri. They were good to her. But she wanted to stand on her own two feet. She needed to.

Nancy took one last glance in the mirror before swinging her purse over her shoulder. She was ready for a whole new start.

She looked through the peephole first – instinctively. The police officer had told her that her husband might try to come around. That she should exercise caution. When she saw a figure through the tiny glass viewer she nearly jumped. Startled, she pressed her face to the peep hole again.

Astounded, she whipped open the door.

"Mom?" She asked.

"Michelle." Her mother mimicked her shocked tone, her voicy husky from years of smoking. "You gonna invite me in?"

"Uhm, I was on the way out, actually. How'd you find me?" Her mind raced. Only Nancy knew she was here. Only Nancy.

"Went by your house. Your husband said you'd be here. What I'd like to know is what the hell you think you're doing?" Her mother asked.

"What do you mean?" Shelley scanned the rest of the parking lot, mercifully empty. She didn't want others to witness the ugly scene that was about to unfold.

"Herring off like that. You gotta stick by your man." Her mother pinned her with a disapproving look.

"Mother, he beat me." Shelley stood her ground.

"So? You don't listen. You talk back. You mouth off. You think you're so much better than me. You think you're so much better than everyone." Her mother sneered, leaning against the motel wall. "He wouldn't hit you if you were a better wife. "

Shelley closed her eyes. She hadn't expected her mother to side with her. But it still hurt.

"What are you doing back here. I though you were out west."

:"I was. Andy broke things off anyway – he found someone younger. Prettier. They'll always find somebody younger and prettier." Andy hadn't been a real winner to Shelley's mind, so it was no loss.

"Blake called me. Real torn up about how you left him high and dry, missy." Her mother pulled out a pack of camels, lighting one. She blew the first puff of smoke in Shelley's face.

"At least he's paying attention to you." Her mother said, grimly. A touch of jealousy edged her voice. "Shelley, nobody wants used goods. I know. I was tainted the moment I had you. No man wants a woman who has been married or has a child. It's the natural way of things. So you hurry your stupid ass back to that boy. When you find a man who loves you, you gotta stick by him. Because there's nothing worse than being alone in this world. Nothing."

Shelley stalked past her. Her mother just made her so _MAD_.

"Don't be a quitter Michelle! Don't give up on your marriage, like you gave up on everything else." Her mother called after her.

Shelley walked blindly for several blocks. Just walking. Her mother's words resonated in her head. ._Nothing worse than being alone. _Unwillingly her eyes welled with tears. She angrily rubbed her eyes.

She found herself not in front of the dinner, but in front of the house she shared with Blake. Their car sat in the driveway – he was home. She rang the doorbell. He opened the door half-way, staring down at her, eyes blank. They stood looking at each other for several minutes.

"Baby? I'm sorry for leaving." She heard herself say. She hated herself for saying it. God, what was she doing?

It echoed in her mind again. _Nothing worse than being alone. _

"I wanna come home."

**AN: I know, I know. You might wonder why I have her go back to him. Why? WHY? It seems so stupid. I kinda felt like I needed to explain why she's stayed by him so long in the first place. And part of that is the way she grew up – her mother's life revolved around men who changed at regular intervals. She's afraid of being alone – she longs for stability. There are a few other reasons – which I think will probably be brought up in the next couple chapters.**

**Shits gonna hit the fan soon, though, son. Soon. I promise.**


	10. Sorry For the Trouble

Wordy finished up the paperwork on a break-and-enter. Two kids getting bored and reckless. He remembered how that felt. You just wanted something to make you feel alive – get a kick of adrenalin. Except he hadn't found it relieving some family of their CD player – he'd joined a boxing gym. And then a jui jitsu club. And a Taekwondo team. He was excellent at close-quarters combat – he'd passed every evaluation with flying colours.

He liked being strong. It meant he had the power to stand up against injustices. He had the strength to defend the defenceless. So, unlike a handful of the other cops in his precinct, he liked pumping iron and running laps. He enjoyed the gym.

Flipping the filofax on the case closed, he thought of what would happen to the young perps. They'd looked so damn terrified in the back of the cruiser during the ride back to the station. The kids would get a fine, probation and, worst case scenario, maybe some time in juvie. They just needed some guidance. They just needed a nudge in the right directions. They weren't bad kids – just a little off course.

He made a note to contact a friend at a local community centre. He'd see if he could pull some strings, get them into the local youth programme, a sports crew. Get something to keep them out off the streets and out of the prison system.

Filing the report, he checked his watch. He'd be getting off-shift in another half hour. He figured a water-break would give him a legitimate excuse to stretch his muscles.

He passed through a maze of detective desks. Some were occupied by cops – typing, making calls, interviewing witnesses.

"_Fuck. Fucking A."_ The familiar voice was laced with bitterness. Wordy always had time for a fellow cop. He knew what it was like to struggle with a case. Sometimes they struck a little too close to home. He turned back, spotted his buddy officer Richard Marks slamming the receiver of his phone down. They were partnered together sometimes. Wordy altered his course, strode up to Marks' desk.

Marks was a legacy cop, following in the footsteps of his father, and he was good at the job – ambitious, observant, empathetic. He was cool-headed and logical, but quick-thinking. He was a Habs fan which was just too damned bad, Wordy thought. But nobody's perfect, right?

"What's up Marks?" He asked. He eased a hip onto the corner of his friend's cluttered desk.

"Lost another one." He scowled at the phone, crossing his arms.

"Another what? Informant?" Wordy asked.

"Naw. A domestic."

"I'm sorry man. She didn't make it?" If he hated anything it was wife and child abusers. Slimiest bastards that ever walked the face of the planet.

"No. She just called. Doesn't want to press charges. She's _sorry for the trouble._ She's going back to the son of a bitch. I don't understand these women. He beat her to within an inch of her life. He choked her so hard I probably could've gotten fingerprints off the fucking bruises. And she's going back."

Marks swore, rocking back on his chair. He thought he'd had this one. He'd served the restraining order himself, tracking the asshole down to the hotel where he worked. The mean son of a bitch had glared at him, demanding to know where his wife was. He needed to _discuss _the matter with her. Marks was almost 100% certain that a 'discussion' would entail a first to the face. He'd told the husband that he was not able, or willing, to give him Michelle's whereabouts. Inside he'd been thinking: _go to hell_. The jackass had slyly smirked at him. Told him Shelley wouldn't press charges. That this wouldn't be the end of it. Fucking bastard.

It was frustrating that he was right. It was more frustrating that these women went _back_.

"I get off in 20. I'll buy you a beer." Wordy said.

Marks sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, sounds good." You just can't save somebody who doesn't want to be saved, he thought.

**AN: I really loved writing this chapter – may have been my favourite yet. Read & Review as always 3 **


	11. Never Be Alone

Tonight was the Wordsworths' annual Thanksgiving party – lots of people from the neighbourhood would be there. It was a huge, festive gathering, well loved by everyone. She'd been a couple times when she was younger. She had liked it – watching the various people come together, chatting about their families and families, exchanging stories. Getting stuffed off Mrs. Wordsworth's incredible stuffing and pumpkin pie. Mr. Wordsworth would stock a fire, even though it was only October. She always tried to sit as close to it as possible. She loved the feeling of the warmth against her skin.

She hadn't been since she'd married Blake, but Mrs. Wordsworth had cornered her in the pharmacy, pressuring and pushing until she'd finally agreed to go. The idea of being surrounded by dozens and dozens of people, some of which probably knew or suspected what Blake was doing – it horrified her.

She was contemplating her excuses as they got ready. She'd chosen a long-sleeved dress in a deep blue that fell just above her knees. It was somewhat daring in that the neckline was drastically lower than she was used to, but she figured it would probably be one of the few times she could ever where it as her neck was miraculously clear of the nearly-ever present bruises.

"I think we should have a baby." Blake announced, adjusting his tie in the mirror.

Shelley fumbled the strap on her high heel, stumbling painfully into the side of the bed. Her hip throbbed from where he'd kicked her last week. He'd been so good – he hadn't hit in almost a month after the incident. But things were starting to get worse again.

"What?" She asked, uncertain she'd heard him correctly.

He scowled. "Are you really that stupid? I said we should have a baby. We've been married for four fucking years. It's time for us to have a family."

Her worst nightmare was coming true. She sat stiffly on the bed, knees suddenly weak. It was one thing to suffer his abuse, but … she was certain he'd do the same to a child. She couldn't let him do that to anyone else. She wouldn't bring a child into this hateful relationship.

"Why don't we talk about it later?" She asked, hopefully. "After the party."

"What's there to talk about?" He snarled, turning on his heel. "You married me. You'll give me a son. It's what wives _do_." He stalked to the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Shelley heard herself ask frantically, rising to follow him.

He was methodically cracking the foil on her birthcontrol, tossing the pills into the toilet. He calmly flushed the toilet.

"There. Discussion complete." He said, brushing by her.

_Oh god. What would she do? What would she do?_ Her pills were gone. All of them. She couldn't get a refill until the end of the month – and even then he couldn't know about them.

"Lets go." He grunted, grabbing up his coat and heading for the door without a second look.

She panicked the whole way to the party, mulling over her options in her head. She could try to buy some and then hide them. But if he found them, oh god, it wouldn't be pretty.

She continued to fret at the party, awkwardly shying away from people. She'd glanced Nancy and Brian with little Charlie through the haze of the crowd, and Kevin was somewhere nearby – he could hear his deep rumbling laugh, but frankly she just couldn't face any of them.

"Shelley dear, could you grab another bottle of Canadian Dry from the pantry?" Mrs. Wordsworth asked, bustling by to mop up some spill Jilly Chang's daughter had made.

Shelley was the grateful for the excuse, skirting around a crowd of people in the kitchen for the pantry. It was dark and cool. Shelley rested her head against one of the high shelves for a minute, to steady her breathing. Just a few more hours and she'd be free to go home.

She spun when she heard the door creak open. Her heart sunk.

It was Nancy.

They hadn't spoken since Shelley had gone back to Blake. Shelley knew how Nancy felt about him – she knew Nancy did not approve of her decision. She was ashamed and angry. She thought Shelley was a freaking moron.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment.

"Wordy's mom sent me for gingerale." Shelley stated blandly turning to search the shelves for pop.

"Yeah, me too. Clever old bat." Nancy brushed past her, careful not to touch her – she wasn't sure where Blake had beaten her last. She didn't want to accidentally brush up against any bruises. She was mad at the girl, but she didn't want to cause her any harm.

Shelley dropped her head in shame. Had things become so bad that Nancy wouldn't even risk contact with her? She was that mad?

They wordlessly located the bottles of Canadian Dry gingerale.

"I'm sorry." Shelley blurted out before Nancy could reach the door. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry, Shell." Nancy sighed deeply.

"I can't live my life the way you want me to." Shelley tried to explain.

"I just … Shelley, that's fine. You get to make your own decisions. I get that. And I can't hold you back from running back to that rat-bastard husband of yours. But I'm not going to watch it any longer. I watched my father beat my mother for seventeen years. I'd come home at night wondering if she'd still be alive. And I escaped that. And I won't watch it happen all over again. I'm sorry, Shelley. But I can't watch him hurt you. I won't."

"I'm afraid." Shelley whispered.

"I know." Nancy dropped the bottle of pop back onto the shelf. "I know." She wrapped her arms around Shelley's bony shoulders, engulfing her in a hug.

"He wants to have a baby." She confessed, tears starting to form. "I can't …" She started to weep, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Shhhh." Nancy hushed her. "It's okay. You'll be okay."

"I have to leave him." Shelley realized. "For good this time. Last time I went back because … he had my mother come to see me. And she was telling me I deserved it for being such a bad wife. And that if I didn't go back I'd be alone forever. I was so afraid of being alone"

"Sweetie, you'll never be alone. You'll always have me and Charlie and Bri. We're family. You know that?" Nancy soothed. Shelley was like her baby sister.

"She said I was _used_. Like I was some beat-up junker that lies in the field rusting for the next hundred years." Shelley laughed. "I'm so stupid."

"Shell, you're not stupid." Nancy replied fiercely. "You're beautiful, smart, strong, loyal. I've always told you that you deserved better than Blake. You won't be alone forever. I'm telling you. You'll find somebody who loves you. Who really loves you." Nancy

Nancy's heart soared a little. "I can help you Shell. I can go get Kev right now. He'll know what to do."

Shelley's heart stopped. No. Kevin could _not _know. Anybody but Kevin.

"I have the number for Officer Marks still." She responded vaguely.

"Call me tomorrow." Nancy demanded. "Call me after he leaves. I'll come and we'll pack up what you need and we'll get you out."

"Okay. Yes. Okay." Shelley decided. It was time to be brave. It was time to make the right decision. "Lets get this back out there before Mrs. Wordsworth things we're having a tryst in her pantry." She joked.

* * *

Whenever Wordy saw Blake he had the indescribably urge to punch him in the face. Perhaps in hopes of removing the permanent smug-ass smirk that seemed to be super-glued there. The guy was a pompous asshole. How the hell Shelley put up with him on a regular basis was completely beyond him. Sweet little Shelley with intolerable Blake.

"Why'd you invite _The Asshole_ again?" He asked his mother under his breath as he refilled her wine glass.

"Because I wanted to see Shelley and I knew she wouldn't come without him." His mother said, sipping delicately. Normally she didn't approve of swearing, but in Blake's case … well, she supposed it was most fitting.

"Have you said hello yet?" His mother urged. She'd always hoped maybe Shelley would take a shine to her boy. Who wouldn't, after all? Kevin was such a fine young man. Such a shame, she thought. They would make such a handsome couple.

She could always hope. Perhaps one day Shelley would realize what a jerk she'd married or Blake would get mowed down by a bus. Although the latter seemed infinitely more possible, and both seemed incredibly unlikely, a woman could always hope.

Wordy threaded his way through the crowd, chatting with various neighbours and friends. "Hey Shelley." He said when he finally reached her. "Happy Thanksgiving."

She smiled gently. "Yeah. You too Wordy."

"Dad'll be warming up the fireplace soon." He told her. He remembered how much she liked the fire.

"Aren't you working tonight?" Shelley asked. "I thought your mother said something about you being on call?"

"Yeah, I have to bail out early. My partner's coming in about half an hour. Well, actually, he's probably going to arrive pretty soon so he can pig out on my mom's cooking before we go on shift." Richard was always down for food – particularly the kind he didn't have to cook for himself.

Blake materialized beside Shelley, wrapping a possessive arm around her.

"_Wordy_." He sneered. Somehow the nickname sounded vile when he said it. "Heard you were back in town." He didn't sound all that welcoming.

"Yeah, well. Couldn't stay away for long." Wordy said lightly whilst envisioning choke-holding him. Oh yes. That made the interaction slightly more bearable.

"Moving in on my _wife?_" Blake accused suddenly. Wordy's face contorted in confusion. Blake jerked Shelley more firmly to his side, bumping her tender hip against him. She hissed out a pained breath.

"I think you're confused." Wordy calmly said. His eyes locked on Shelley, she could see the mechanisms working, his brain clicking into place. She glanced away quickly.

"Sweetie, I think you may have had a little too much wine." She said, rubbing a hand over his chest. "Maybe it's time we went home."

"No it's not. I can see him making eyes at you from across the room." His voice started to rise and people were beginning to look.

"You're mistaken. I don't moon after married women." Wordy's brow furrowed. Well, it wasn't a total lie. He didn't regularly moon after married women. It just so happened that Shelley was the exception.

"You're just jealous because you wanted Shelley and I _got _her." He spoke of her like an object.

"Blake, you've had enough." Shelley stepped in front of him. He started to argue back. "Listen, babe. Lets just go home. We can work on … the thing we talked about earlier." She tried desperately – she just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

His eyes lit with a vicious gleam. He swerved towards the door, hauling her along behind him. She managed to snag their coats as they passed the rack by the entrance.

Blake threw open the front door, letting it clang violently against the wall.

Shelley's heart sunk impossibly lower.

"Detective Marks." Her husband growled.


	12. Confidential

"Blake." Marks responded coolly. "I was unaware you would be here tonight."

Blake seemed to weigh his options. Punching the interfering bastard in the face, while satisfying, would likely land him in jail. And he knew from experience that the police didn't take assaulting an officer lightly. He brushed by Marks without responding.

"Shelley. How are you?" The officer inquired; face careully wiped blank of emotion or thought.

"Just fine, thank you." She responded stiffly. What the _hell _was he doing here. "Blake and I are just leaving but it was a pleasure to run into you again. I'm sorry we couldn't talk longer." She skirted around the man, hurrying after her husband.

Wordy watched speechless from the doorway as Shelley climbed into the car, carefully tucking the seatbelt around herself. Blake merely slammed the door of the passenger side door crossing his arms moodily and glaring at him and Marks. Shelley carefully pulled the car out onto the street and whipped away.

"You know them?" Marks asked, quietly as Wordy watched the car depart.

"Yeah. Shell and I went to high school together. Blake too at some point, but the bastards a fucking tool." Wordy shook his head, hoping it would clear it some. It didn't. "What the hell just happened here?"

"Let's go." Marks said, striding back to the car. He was definitely not in the festive mood anymore. Wordy, after a quick goodbye to his parents, joined his partner.

They drove part of the way in silence.

"I don't understand women like that." Marks grumbled.

"Women like what?" Wordy asked, genuinely confused.

"Shelley. The ones who marry – and stay with – assholes."

"I couldn't really say much about –" His voice broke off. Slowly he turned to Marks. "How did you say you know Shelley and Blake?"

"I didn't say. It's confidential." His partner responded shortly.

"You mean …." Wordy's voice trailed off – he didn't need to explain.

"Christ – how could you not have seen it. You're a police officer. God, she's practically textbook." Marks ranted. "You honestly didn't notice?"

Wordy's mind raced as it started to connect all the evidence. The turtlenecks in the broiling August weather, her fear when she found out he was a cop, the scratches on her hands she'd claimed were the result of pruning rosebushes, the sunglasses even when it wasn't all that sunny, the long disappearances, why she looked so damned scared all the damned time.

"You didn't know." Marks responded, breathing deeply. Sometimes it was harder to see these things when they were close to you.

* * *

_Oh god. _Shelley's mind raced. She'd never seen him this furious. The alcohol only seemed to enrage him. He plowed a first into her chest, it deflected as she scrambled away from him.

"Bitch. Think you can flirt with other men. You're _mine. _You are _MINE_." He hissed leaning in close, his hot breath, reeking of wine and whisky, fanned across her cheek. She struggled to get away.

"You think some fucking _cop _can help you? You arranged for that today, didn't you? Didn't you? Whore." He yelled, snapping a hand across her face. Her cheeks stung from the harsh blow. "Whore." He whispered it this time, advancing on her like she was prey.

She backed up but found herself trapped by the wall. He was standing between her and the front door. The only other escape was through the side door off the kitchen. If she could just get to the kitchen. Her gaze darted down the hall to the kitchen and in the moment she took her eyes of him he lunged.

He brought them both to the floor, rolling end over end in the narrow hall. His hands wrapped firmly around her neck, squeezing. She choked, her hands flew up to cover his, trying to pry away his fingers. She scratched at his face, shoving and bucking with her whole body to try and get free.

Blake laughed, grinding closer. "You like that?" He panted. She shivered in disgust. "You like that, whore?" He shifted one hand from her neck, trailing it down to squeeze her breasts painfully. His other hand darted up under her dress to tear at her underwear.

Sobbing she jabbed her land up, hitting his eye. He rolled off, clutching his face and howling in pain.

She sucked in a breath and screamed.

* * *

The radio crackled as the dispatcher's voice filled the car. "We've got a domestic call at 21 Sandyhook Square, guys. I know you're not on duty yet, but we're absolutely swamped with calls – you're the closest."

Wordy picked up the mike. "Copy, Melanie, we'll take the call." Marks hit the gas and the sirens immediately, pulling a u-turn in the middle of the street to speed back up Warden's Avenue.

L'Amoreaux was mostly a pretty tame town. The majority of calls they took were dealing with rowdy youths, home invasions, robberies, out-of-control parties and noise complaints. But the calls that bothered Wordy the most were the domestics. He absolutely hated them. He hate the feeling of helplessness when the abused would try and say, whoops, they walked into a wall, or that they must have been arguing too loudly. That maybe the neighbours had heard somebody else or that they'd been listening to the TV to loudly. He'd become a cop to _help _people and it pained him when they refused to _be _helped.

They rounded the final corner before Sandyhook. Marks checked the rear view mirror. The area was very familiar. It was strange because it wasn't a high-traffic area, or one prone to lots of calls. He tried to recall where he'd seen it before – the closely-packed rows of brick and siding, the cheery little houses, the patches of lawn.

"Oh. Shit." He muttered.

"What?" Wordy asked, glancing over. Marks had gone decidedly pale. He hit the accelerator a little harder and the car took the next turn with an astounding speed. Wordy was forced to grab the dash to keep from sliding in his seat.

"What is it?" He asked again.

"That's their address. Shelley and Blake." Marks said.

"No it's not. When I ran into her at the Price Choppers I dropped Shelley off at Elmartin." But she hadn't gone inside, he suddenly realized. She hadn't gone inside. She'd walked up to the front door and waved him goodbye. She hadn't given him her real address. In case Blake came home and saw. Or in case one of the neighbours blabbed that she had seen Shelley get out of another man's car. _Oh Shelley._ "Oh god."

"You got your side arm?" Marks asked, reaching into his jacket for his glock, nestled into his shoulder-holster.

Wordy nodded, reaching behind him for his own .40. His thigh-holster was in his locker at the station, however he kept his service gun on him at all times.

Marks swung the car into the driveway, hitting the brakes hard enough for them to squeal. Neighbours peered out of the houses on either side. And then he heard it. The undeniable crash of a body being flung into something hard, the sickening crunch of something giving way. A long, bloody and eerily familiar scream.

He and Marks exchanged one look over the hood of the car before they ran to the front door, hitting it hard and sending it spiralling inwards.

Shelley was there, curled on the floor, crawling on hands and knees towards the door. Her dress hung, ripped and spotted with blood. Her hands were cut and bloody, blood dripped from her forehead. Dark welts were forming on her face, arms and legs.

She flinched when she glanced up and saw them, freezing on the spot. Her eyes went huge. Blake lay sprawled against the wall, grabbing his face and howling in pain.

Wordy dropped his weapon an inch, moving forward to help her - to gather her close and carry her away from this wreckage.

Blake suddenly lunged, grabbing her ankle and dragging her back towards him. She screamed in terror. He drew back an arm to slam it into her face but suddenly his enormous weight, bearing down on her, was relieved.

Wordy crashed into him, knocking him sideways and away from Shelley. Blake roared with rage, swinging his lumbering limbs, flailing them in the attempts to strike, but Wordy was faster and stronger. They clambered to their feet.

Wordy faked right before diving forward and punched Blake, slamming a fist into the bastard's face, followed by another to the gut. Blake retaliated, a strong hook that sent Wordy stumbling back a few paces.

Marks kept his gun trained on Blake. Wordy was the best at close-quarters combat – but he wanted to be ready. Just in case. He could stand back and let Wordy fight his demons. But if Blake went too far – if he became a threat to Wordy, Shelley or himself, he'd be forced to shoot. And, truth be told, he wasn't sure he'd mind.

Blake's head snapped back under a particularly forceful blow. He tried to grab Wordy's neck but he easily blocked the manoeuvre, pinning Blake's arm. He rammed another fist into the face. His knuckles sang. Blake's eyes rolled back into his head and he fell limp beneath Wordy. He reared back his arm to deliver one final blow but Marks leapt forward, grabbing his first before he could.

"It's enough, Wordy. Enough."

He didn't think so. It wasn't enough until that bastard felt everything that he had done to Shelley. It would never ever be enough.

Her small, broken sob snapped him out of his hazy rage, though. Pushing off Blake, he scrambled over the wreckage-strewn floor. She threw up her arms in defence.

It broke Wordy's heart to see her like that.

"It's okay." He cooed. "You're going to be okay." He tried to put an arm around her – to help her up – but she jerked away.

He looked over his shoulder to Marks, who was cuffing Blake. "Put him in the car and call for a paramedic." He ordered.

With gentle, gentle hands he reached forward, sweeping her tangled hair away from her face. He grimaced at the swelling eye, at the massive cut along her cheekbone, at the trail of blood stemming down from her hairline.

"_Shelley._" He whispered. Gentle hands stroked her face. "Shelley you should have told me."

She continued to look away. He wrapped an arm around her, gently lifting her until she stood on wobbling feet. At first she tried to push him away, feebly shoving against his chest. When she realized he wouldn't let go she collapsed against him.

He gently shifted her dress, which had ridden up to her thighs, so it covered her. "Can you walk, baby? Shelley?" She nodded, but with the first step found that it was a struggle. Pain radiated up her hip and her centre of balance was all wonky. The world took a sick and dizzying slide as she slipped in Wordy's grasp.

"Take that as a no." He said, shifting so that he could lift her. He was gentle; more gentle than she could have imagined, but still it hurt. Outside, he sat on the grass, cradling her head to his chest.

"You're going to be okay, Shell. You're gonna be okay." He said over and over, rocking her gently. He wasn't sure who needed it to be true more: him or her.

__

**AN: As my father would say - shit hit the fan, sunny. Make my life and leave a review, please.**


	13. Disturbing the Peace

Nancy flew down the hall of the hospital, skidding to a stop in front of the nurses station. "Shelley Wooler. Nicholson. Probably Wooler. No. Maybe. I don't know. I was told she was on this floor?" She was flustered. The nurse behind the desk gave her a dismissive glance from underneath impressively long eyelashes.

"Sorry, ma'am you'll have to wait." She said in a bored drawl.

Nancy slammed a hand down on the desk. "I'm afraid it _can't _wait. My friend was admitted tonight – a few hours ago. I need to find her."

The nurse sighed. Some people just wouldn't give up. "Why was she admitted?" She checked her rounds charts.

"Uhm – cuts, bruises, trauma. Something like that. A cop with her. Big strapping man, large shiny gun. Kinda hard to miss." Nancy bounced on the spot. Couldn't this girl hurry up any more.

"Oh _yeah_. Michelle Wooler. Sure. Room 322." The nurse was about to add that, given her condition, she was limited to only one visitor at a time but Nancy had already dashed off in search of Michelle.

She nearly flung open the door, but decided that her getting emotional and angry was probably the last thing Michelle needed. She sucked in a few breaths to calm herself and eased open the door.

Shelley looked absolutely awful. Worse, even, than after the incident a few months ago when Shelley had called her. Worse than she'd ever seen her. Her eye was completely swollen shut now. An IV drip was attached to her pale, stick-like arm. How had Shelley become so thin? It seemed so wrong. Kevin sat at a chair at the foot of the bed, head hanging, propped up by two ripped and swollen hands.

"Kevin." She whispered, dropping her purse by the door.

"Nancy?" His head snapped up. "Marks called you?"

"Yeah – he remembered me from the file. He thought I should be here for Shelley."

"So you knew?" He accused, eyes glowing with anger. It dripped from his voice. "You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry, Kev. How could I? She asked me not to."

"And we all know you always do _exactly _as you're told." He replied bitterly. "I could have helped her. We could have avoided all of this. This – what happened today didn't need to happen."

"I know. I know I should have. But she's my best friend and I was afraid of betraying her. I was afraid that she'd cut me or she'd let Blake cut me out so when she was ready to leave she wouldn't have anyone to help her. I thought … I thought she needed to make the decision for herself. My mother always went back. After the cops would get her out – she always went back. I thought she needed to choose to leave him on her own or she'd just go back too." Nancy's admitted haltingly. She hated to cry but she couldn't help it. "I'm sorry."

Wordy sighed. He should have seen it earlier. He looked up to the bed where Shelley lay sleeping. Her skin was sallow and dead under the fluorescent lighting. It only enhanced the welts and bruises creeping across her limbs and face.

"I should have seen it." His head dropped back down into his hands.

Nancy moved forward to crouch in front of him. "Don't. Don't blame yourself. Blame Blake. Blame me. Blame anyone you want. Don't blame yourself." She ran a finger over his torn knuckles. "Looks like you did a number on the bastard."

"Yeah." He said, turning his hands over, flexing his fingers against the pain in his joints. "Maybe."

"Tell me he had to be carried away on a stretcher and make my day." Nancy smiled.

"Well. I'd hate to disappoint." He smiled at her. Suddenly serious again he admitted "The only reason I didn't kill him was because Marks jumped in. And I saw her looking at me and I couldn't do it in front of her."

That was big from Wordy. He was, to the core, a loving and gentle person.

"She's going to do it this time. She told me so at your parents'. She was going to leave." Nancy assured him.

"Well. We slapped a few additional charges on top of the domestic abuse and attempted rape." He ran his tongue around the inside of his teeth. "Threw in resisting arrest, disturbing the peace and assault of a police officer."

Nancy laughed. "Of course you did, Wordy."

* * *

Heyyyy Guys.

So, I'm stuck in a bit of a dilemna with this story. I had a pretty good idea where I was going until here but now I ... need a little time to figure out where I'm gonna take it from here. I feel like this isn't the end of the road for Shelley and Wordy. Like it would be cheating to just mosh them together now. She's just come out of a truly horrendous relationship and I just feel like I'd be short changing them to just throw them together now. I feel like there's more story to them than that. I've got another chapter to post within the next few days but I'm warning you. It's exam time and I be mad stressing. I'm not 100% thrilled with this chapter or the next one. Anyway - no fear. I love writing this story and I'm going to keep updating. I just need to consider what I can do with it from here...

Just let me know what you think, okay? Reviews = mad mad mad love.


	14. Feels Like Losing

Marks showed up at the hospital after their shift ended. Wordy cast a weary eye at the still-sleeping Shelley. He didn't want to leave her – in case she woke up and needed somebody. But on the other hand Nancy had curled up on the couch under the window. He could afford a few minutes to find out what had become of the disgusting asshole.

He rose to his feet, nodding to the hallway. Marks followed. He strode towards the vending machine, plugging in change and viciously punching the buttons for a Pepsi.

"So?" He asked.

"So." Marks responded, crossing his ankles as he leaned against the wall.

"What happened?" Wordy prodded.

"Well, seeing as I genuinely like you and your little lady friend here I took the liberty of putting our skeezebag Blake Nicholson in the holding cell with the biggest, baddest son of a bitch we had." Marks smiled with the remembrance. "Two hundred and fifty pounds of pure drug-pushing muscle. Hates child molestors and wife-beaters, as it were. I'm sure they'll get along just _dandy._"

Wordy grinned. He could always depend on Marks. "Thanks."

Marks shifted uncomfortably. "We can hold him on the assault charges for now. But, Wordy, lets be honest. A lot of times the charges don't stick on these things. He's looking a fair bit worse than you are – he's talking about police brutality. The department's going to have to let that one slide. Michelle's bailed out once before. You gotta make sure she sticks this time."

Wordy's face was set with determination. "The charges are going to stick all right. They're going to stick all the way to the penitentiary, Marksy boy." He'd make damned sure of it.

He stomped back to the room, pausing carefully beside the door to compose himself before moving back into the room.

Shelley was awake staring blankly out the window. She looked like a broken doll, bruised, limp, emotionless. Nancy stood beside her, stroking back her hair gently, carefully avoiding the tender cuts and scrapes.

"Nancy, Marks wanted to take your statement." He needed a moment alone with Shelley. Nancy frowned, but reluctantly followed Officer Marks.

Wordy looked down, suddenly feeling awkward and oversized. His hands, bruised and battered from the beating he'd given Blake, seemed too clumsy to touch Shelley. But she looked so incredibly sad – too sad not to.

"Shelley." He sighed. He just wished they were sweet sixteen again, with no cares, no fears. He wished none of this had ever happened. He absolutely didn't regret beating Blake to a pulp, but he wished she hadn't had to see it. She'd seen enough violence in her life.

"You think I should have told you. You think I should have left." Her voice was small. She continued to look away. She didn't want to see the pity in his eyes. "It's not that easy Kevin."

"Why not, Shelley? He beat you. He's done it before. He would do it again, given the chance. God, Shelley. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I though I loved him. I want him to love me." Shelley shrugged.

"He doesn't love you." Wordy responded angrily. Shelley looked up, surprised by his outburst. "He's not loving you when he hits you, or kicks you or strangles you or tries to _rape _you. Don't you wonder what would have happened if we hadn't got there."

"Every minute, Wordy." She replied easily.

"You have to know that what Blake's doing isn't love." Wordy insisted.

"I do." She admitted. "I just … It felt like giving up. Blake was the first person who was interested in me – like, seriously interested in _me_. I felt important to him. Walking away feels like losing." She ran a finger over the patterned blanket.

"You can't go back Shelley. He'll kill you." Wordy fisted his hands. He'd kill the bastard before she set a foot in the goddamned door.

"I'm not going back." Shelley said. "I won't go back again. I know Officer Marks is worried I will. But it's not going to happen. I can't stay married to him. You're absolutely right. He doesn't love me. I've spent so many years afraid and tired and lonely and ashamed. And that's not what life is about, is it?"

"No, Shell." Wordy warily answered, sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.

"I thought it was going to kill me last night." Shelley's gaze finally met his. "I thought he would finally do it. And I realized that's not how I want to live my life. When I envisioned where I'd be in five years when we graduated I didn't picture myself a battered wife. I thought I'd be happy. And I'm not. I think I could be eventually – I'd to think so. But for now I'm ending my marriage and starting all over again and that's scary and sad for me."

Wordy wasn't sure what to say. He was helplessly speechless. It seemed like there was so much to say but he just couldn't figure out how to say it. So instead he reached forward pulling Shelley into a comforting embrace.

"I think you'll be fine Shelley. Better than fine. I think you'll be brilliant." He assured her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, like one would a child.

"And if my mother comes back this time I'm going to tell her to shove it." Shelley gave a watery laugh as she clung to his shoulder.


	15. Face Her Demons

"But _Kevin _I don't want to." Shelley hated that her voice sounded whiny.

"But _Michelle _you already agreed to." Wordy mimicked her tone. He checked his rear view mirror before parallel parking his off-duty car. Shelley sullenly crossed her arms.

Wordy was glad, to be honest. Since Shelley had been released from the hospital two weeks ago she'd seemed too mechanical, too wooden. Too … deadish. He missed the energetic and lively old Shelley – the spontaneous, fun girl. He wanted to shake her sometimes she was so emotionless. Irritation – even if it was aimed at him – was preferable to the emptiness he usually saw.

The bruises had faded, now just ghostly shadows of what she'd endured, just the faintest hint of violence.

When Shelley had been released from the hospital the therapist had recommended she go to a woman's shelter. A place for other women who'd been victimized by their partners. The doctor had said she may feel most comfortable around people who understand what she'd been through. While he'd visited the Woodlawn women's centre on several occasions and knew, first hand, the wonders it was capable of, Wordy knew it wasn't the right place for Shelley. She needed normalcy and time and space.

So instead she'd been staying with Nancy. Wordy knew it was best that way. She needed the company of another woman and she'd be well taken care of. He couldn't imagine Blake trying to get past Nancy's mountain of a husband. Bri had been enfuriated when he'd learned the truth. He'd made his desire to rend Blake's head from his shoulders and stomp his lifeless body quite clear. And so Wordy knew that Shelley would be protected and nurtured with Nancy and Brian, but he couldn't help the prickling desire in his gut that she stay with him. So he could keep an eye on her himself – so he could be absolutely certain she would be safe.

But Wordy heeded some of the doctor's advice, particularly given that his opinion had been augmented by that of the department shrink who'd recommended Shelley attend the group help sessions the women's centre hosted for victims of domestic violence.

So there they were, parallel parked outside the Woodlawn facilities on a chilly Wednesday in November.

Shelley glanced over at the glass and brick building, anxiously. Women and children milled through the doors. The younger ones tended to stay close, small hands anxiously clutching their mother's pant legs, but a scattering of children were running in the generous park area nearby. Some of them laughed, scrambling through the sparsely grouped trees in what appeared to be a game of tag. They didn't seem to notice the bruises or scars that marked their small bodies – perhaps they were entirely used to seeing the signs of violence. They didn't notice it, but Wordy did and his heart weighed a little heavier because of it.

"I'll be right here, Shelley. If you can't do it, you can leave at any time. Come on out and I'll take you home. But this is important and you should at least _try_." Wordy spoke softly, patting one of his large hands over one of hers.

Shelley nodded. Her hands gave an almost indiscernible tremble as they reached for the handle. She wasn't sure why she was so nervous. Perhaps it was the idea of sharing her story. It still shamed her, what she'd allowed Blake to do. She hadn't been strong enough to stand up to him. She hadn't been strong enough to leave. She felt stupid – she'd been fooled by his charming façade and hadn't noticed the monster underneath.

Wordy watched from the car as she looked carefully both ways before crossing the street. She hugged her thin coat closer around her too-thin frame and hurried, head downcast, across the street to the unimposing building. He sighed. He wished he could make it better for her.

* * *

Shelley glanced around the room, surveying its occupants. Women sat, or slumped in several cases, in hard-backed chairs clustered in the wide waiting area. Some looked calm, composed, carefully flipping through magazines or chatting with one another. Others had a slightly more harried look, like a rabbit looking up into the gaping jaws of a wolf. The walls were a bright yellow with murals of flowers made from tiny hands. Shelley supposed it was meant to put people at ease with its vibrancy and liveliness, but it only made the stories that had brought the women and children to this place seem sadder.

Her stomach clenched. She just wanted to leave.

She _could._ If she wanted to she could walk out the front doors and ask Wordy to take her home. He would do it for her.

But she'd made a promise to Wordy and Nancy that she'd try. And more importantly she'd made a promise to herself that she would do everything in her power to get well and live a normal life. And while it may have seemed completely contradictory to go to this _stupid _therapy session and relive her _stupidity _and _naivety _and the general horror that was her marriage, it was important to them. And if they thought it would help she'd give it a shot.

So Shelley swallowed her pride and scepticism and took a vacant seat. It was near the window through which the late fall sun shone brilliantly. Away from the chilly winds outside, its rays were gentle and warm. Shelley glanced over her shoulder to where Wordy's car was parked. He'd abandoned his book, it seemed, and was currently chasing through the trees after a group of squealing, laughing kids, having apparently joined their game of tag. She watched as a small boy launched himself at Wordy's legs, spending Wordy sprawling across the grass. She could see the children shriek with laughter as Wordy rolled back onto his feet, brushing off the leaves sticking to his jeans. That was Wordy. He had a way with people – an innate ability to put them to ease.

Shelley sighed, turning back to the room.

"What's your name, love?" The woman beside her asked. Her blond hair was artfully fluffed around a delicate face. If Shelley had to guess she'd say the woman was probably looking at her forties in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm Michelle. But I go by Shelley" She said. Her right hand clenched her ring finger where her wedding band had once rested in engrained habit. She used to twist the ring when she was nervous. It was with both sadness and relief she looked down and realized it was no longer there.

The woman noticed her gesture. It had been ten years since she'd been the woman sitting in that chair, terrified and alone, desperately ashamed and lonely, but she still remembered every moment.

"New?" She asked gently. Shelley nodded miserably.

"We were all new at some point, dear. You'll get there. I'm Alexandra." She smiled, her face transformed into a picture of contentment. She looked almost serene. It was almost impossible to think that she'd been through the same hellish ordeal Shelley had.

A severe-looking woman entered the room, her long grey ponytail swinging vigorously behind her as she strode forward. She quickly scanned the room, noting the presence of various women with nods and greetings.

"Michelle Nicholson?" The woman asked as her gaze finally halted on Shelley. She cringed at the use of her married name, but gathered her purse, saying a quick farewell to Alexandria before following the woman into a private office no larger than a broom closet.

Somehow it was even harder in the small office, without the distraction of the other women. The silence was overwhelming.

She gulped in a deep breath. She could do this. She was strong.

"I'm Doctor O'Malley, Michelle." She said, her intense gaze locked on Shelley's. "I'm glad you're here with us today. Perhaps you'd like to know a little more about what we do here at Woodlawn?"

She continued without Shelley responding. "I imagine the doctors recommended this to you as a type of therapy. I know it's a hard word – there's a lot of stigma around it. People think that therapy means you're broken and that there is something to fix. Just because you're here doesn't mean there's something wrong with you." She leaned forward, bracing her arms against the solid pine desk.

"Here at the centre, we think of things a little differently. The centre and all its people are a support system. We help each other. By coming here you're agreeing to help others as others help you. Do you understand?"

Dr. O'Malley paused, allowing Shelley to absorb the information.

"We talk about our troubles, what we're thinking, what we're going through. How we got here, where we want to go next. The women here are at different stages of our lives. Some people are newly separate or divorced, some people have escaped their marriage years or even decades ago. But we're all here for the same reason."

Dr. O'Malley continued, "It takes a lot of strength to pick up the pieces. Healing is powerful and demanding. What we are doing here isn't about fixing your past; it's about letting you move forward."

Shelley felt the tightness in her chest subside a little.

"Would you like to start by telling me something about yourself? It can be anything – anything you want to get off your chest." Dr. O'Malley asked.

"About why you're here, maybe?" She prodded when Shelley hesitated.

"It's such a long story. I don't really know where to begin." Shelley fumbled for the words. She wasn't sure she understood it herself.

"Start anywhere you like." Dr. O'Malley responded patiently.

"I left him because he wanted children." Shelley blurted out. "He wanted to have a baby and I couldn't bring another person under his control. He would have hurt our son or daughter. The last night he threw out my pills. I … I'm ashamed because I don't know if I would have left otherwise. I wonder I would have left him if he hadn't wanted children either." She couldn't stop the words. Her brain was screaming for her to shut up, but her mouth just yammered on.

"You can't second guess yourself, Michelle. You can't live on the 'what ifs'. You can never know what other little, or major thing might have set you off it you'd stayed. The important thing is that you got out, that you're okay and that you're here. You are safe." Dr. O'Malley reassured her.

Doctor O'Malley said. "That's a really good start Michelle. Why don't you tell me how you're feeling now?"

"I dunno." Shelley shrugged. "I guess I just … I feel a lot of things. I'm angry at Blake because I trusted him. We made promises to each other and he broke them when he hurt me. I feel stupid and weak because I let him. I was desperate enough to turn a blind eye to everything he did for so long."

She took another deep breath, rubbing hands against the knees of her pants. "I'm embarrassed it went on as long as it did. People tell me it's not my fault but I just feel ashamed. I had friends and family. I could have left and I didn't." Her tone turned bitter.

"I feel scared sometimes because I feel like he's in the room or he's watching me. I can't sleep with the light off because I dream he's lying there in bed next to me. I'm also scared because I've never been alone before. I stated dating Blake when I was sixteen – we married straight out of highschool. I know that's part of what kept me in that marriage. I was terrified to be alone. But being alone is better than being with Blake." Shelley said resolutely.

"It's a lot to deal with." Dr. O'Malley nodded slowly. "It's overwhelming at first. Lots of emotions."

Shelley silently and bitterly agreed. The feelings and needs were like a swamp, and you keep getting sucked deeper and deeper. When you struggle against it you get sucked in faster so you just stop. You get tired and stop flailing. You stop caring at all.

"Michelle, you were in a serious relationship for a long time – and you let a lot of your identity get wrapped up in your marriage. You let it define you. So leaving and starting over is incredibly hard and scary. You have to find you who _you _are." Dr. O'Malley

Shelley swallowed nervously.

"I don't know where to start." Shelley buried her head in her hands.

"You can start here, Michelle. Right here, right now." Dr. O'Malley smiled, spreading her hands outwards as she leaned back in her chair.

Shelley looked down at the thin white stripe on her ring finger where her wedding band had sat. She clenched her hand painfully tight. She tore her eyes away – they scanned the room, searching for something to focus on.

The window.

More specifically the man on the other side of it, tumbling to the ground amid a flurry of children's arms and legs, sending up a red-gold plume of fallen leaves.

Shelley's grin sparked, spreading across her face.

"Yeah." She said absently, as her hands fell away from one another, old habit forgotten.

* * *

Wordy enjoyed children. Not in a creepy "I like little boys" way – he'd have been forced to kick his own ass and then arrest what was left of himself. He enjoyed how innocent they were – how loving and joyful. How they found delight in the smallest of things and lit up when they discovered something new.

Most of all he loved how resilient they were. They could bounce back from just about anything.

One of the boys was wearing a sling, one little girl had cigarette burns on her hands. Some had been painfully shy, clinging to their mothers watching owlishly at the other children as they played. But they grew more confident, eventually shedding those inhibitions.

He could only hope Shelley would do the same.

He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to check his watch before darting an impatient glance over to the doors of the centre. He wanted to know how her session was going.

She was standing by the doors watching him. She lifted a hand in a kind of wave. A very Shelley gesture. She briskly strode down the stairs, crossing the street to join him.

He tagged one of the older, faster kids lightly on the shoulder, excusing himself from the game amidst a symphony of groans.

"Shell." He said, as he moved to meet her. "How was it?"

"It was good. Dr. O'Malley is amazing. She's so smart. It's like she knows exactly what you're thinking. I feel somehow different. Not better, but maybe stronger or more focused. Determined. I don't know." Shelley ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back off her face.

"That's good." Wordy said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He rocked back on his heels.

"You know that feeling just before you fall asleep – where it feels you're falling?" She asked, tilting her face up to meet the sun. "And then when you realize you're safe, tucked up in bed there's this moment of intense relief. I feel kind of like that."

"Wow. Shelley, that's really good."

"Dr. O'Malley said so many things that made sense. Like. How I misunderstood Blake's actions as love. I never got to see a really good, solid relationship growing up – so I didn't have anything to compare it to. My Mom's revolving door of men made me so determined to keep Blake, despite all the horrible things he did. I was just afraid of never being loved. I'm just like my mom." Shelley laughed bitterly

"You are nothing like your mother." Wordy replied angrily, kicking the ground angrily.

"Maybe – maybe not." Shelley shrugged, closing her eyes.

Wordy's fists balled inside his jean pockets. He took them out, flexing them before gently patting Shell's arm. "No. You are nothing like your mother. Your mom was a cold-hearted bitch, who never gave a rats ass about anybody but herself. How many times did she run off when you were growing up? Leaving you with neighbours or on your own? To fend for yourself? She never cared about anybody else. That's not you, Shelley."

"There are differences, but there are similarities too, Kev. My mother was a rotten example of parenting but I was the one who married Blake. I did that myself."

Wordy had the blind notion of storming into the shelter and ripping off Dr. O'Malley's head. Bull-freaking-shit.

Shelley laughed, the musical sound he'd fallen in love with at the age of 16. "Wordy." She chastised. "I don't blame myself for what he did. He's responsible for that. I think it helps to understand why I stayed. So it won't ever happen again."

Damn straight it wouldn't happen again Wordy thought maliciously.

"It's not your fault, Shelley."

"Nope. No it is not." She agreed, hooking an arm through his. "I think I'm going to stay for the group session – you can drive back if you want. Bus stop's not five minutes away." They walked, leaves crunching beneath their feet.

"Nah, I'll stick around." Wordy decided.

* * *

Dr. O'Malley sighed inwardly, jotting down a final note in Michelle's file. Thirty years on the job and still she felt misery and anger for the women she saw.

There was a brisk knock on the door. She slid her glasses off her face, resting them on the desk.

"Come in." She called. Officer Wordsworth appeared – she had trouble recognizing him without his police uniform. She was so accustomed to the crisp blue and white he wore for official calls. He'd called yesterday, asking if she would do him a favour and make time to see a friend of his today. She already had a full case load, and women were dropping in all the time. But Wordy was a good cop who had dedicated himself to serving the people of the city, including the women she fought to protect.

He had come to the shelter a few times – to dispense of angry husbands who were venting their rage at Woodlawn staff or patients or to bring her women that needed her help. Her facility was the police's top-recommended centre for abused women, a fact she was secretly quite proud of. She walked a fine and tight line between her patients rights to privacy and their need for security

So she'd cleared a spot in her schedule and, after meeting with Michelle, was glad she had.

Wordy had come to the shelter a few times – to dispense of angry husbands who were venting their rage at Woodlawn staff or patients or to bring her women that needed her help. Her facility was the police's top-recommended centre for abused women, a fact she was secretly quite proud of. She walked a fine and tight line between her patients rights to privacy and their need for security.

"Officer." She rose to her feet.

"I was … wondering how it went with Shelley. Do you think she'll be okay?"

"Mmhm. Michelle Nicholson." Dr. O'Malley eased a hip onto the corner of her desk.

"Wooler." He corrected automatically.

Dr. O'Malley raised an eyebrow. "As I was saying. Michelle. Yes I'm very glad you brought her to me. I'm a little surprised, to be honest. There are centres for domestic abuse far closer to L'Amoreux, dear."

"Yes. But … I heard you're the best." Wordy responded. "Shelley means … she's important to me. I want her to have the best."

_Oh boy._ Dr. O'Malley thought. Little Kevin Wordsworth was in love with Michelle.

"Sure. We at Woodlawn like to think we are." Dr. O'Malley waved an arm dismissively. "Obviously I can't say anything we said during session – breach of confidentiality."

Wordy nodded, solemnly. "Got it. I just want to know if you think she'll be okay.

Which was probably why Dr. O'Malley liked him. Whereas other cops may have prodded or pushed or bristled, he respected her authority and accepted her decision.

"I will say that battered women have a lot of emotional chaos. There's a lot of feelings.

They're angry and sad and lost. Shelley seems to have tried to shut those feelings down. But she needs to deal with them face on. We kicked open the door a few inches today. She's very eager to learn." Dr. O'Malley spoke again.

"What should I do to help her?" Wordy asked, turning to pace the narrow room.

"You need to let her face her demons, Officer Wordsworth. Listen when she needs to talk. And make sure she keeps confronting her emotions. She's a strong girl - she knows she's made the right decision. She's healing."

He got up and moved towards the door. He rested his hand on the knob before pivoting back.

"So she's going to be okay?"

"Sure. Eventually. She's a strong girl." Dr. O'Malley smiled.

The boy was sunk.

* * *

AN: Hey guys - I'm so sorry this was so late. Lots of reasons - the usual being my computer broke, it was the holidays, uni friends came up to visit, my family doesn't approve of this 'massive waste of time' (thus I have to wait for them to go to bed) and I have crazy crazy writer's block. I'm not madly in love with this chapter - but it needed to happen for the story to get rolling again. I probably should and could have edited out half the bulk but I just really want to get it posted and start moving on.

More action/drama in the next few chappies. Thanks to everyone who updated and read. I promise I'm not abandonning this.

First New Years I've ever attempted to go out. I got hit on by one lesbian cougar, one drunk and sketchy 50 year old businessman, and three homeless guys. What can I say? I'm productive.

Oh. More importantly I gots to see the real life SRU (the ... ETF?) in Toronto Pearson flying home before Christmas. I was standing there, Starbucks in hand and I catch a glimpse of the coolpants and some big shiny guns (the metal kind - sadly). There were, yeah, 7 of them - all in the EXACT same uniform as on TV. Only difference is that the names aren't written on the back. I did the rubber-necking chicken gawk for a few minutes. Naturally I spent the whole flight home speculating over why they were there, imagining a showdown like in season two where Donna has to shoot that chick for trying to kill the serial killer.

I realized my fandom has reached a whole new level of obsession.

It was an exciting moment for me.

Hope you all had a really lovely holiday season. Lots of luck for the new year.


	16. Uniform

Shelley sank back in the kitchen chair, stretching her arms and flexing her feet. She winced at the twinges in her neck, craning her head forward.

"I don't know why you take such early morning shifts." Nancy yawned, jiggling Charlie on her hip. "This one gets me up at the crack of dawn and you've already left for work." She scowled down at her son – he gurgled happily in response.

"Yeah. Sure, sure, sure. Act all cute now, why don't you. You little jerk." She leaned down to nuzzle against his neck. Exhausting as it was she didn't mind so much.

"Eh. Somebody has to do the morning shifts. And taking those hours means I get the rest of the day free to pester you and Charlie here. He being fussy?" Shelley asked

"Naw. He just likes attention and play time more than he respects the sanctity of sleep." Nancy replied dryly. Charlie squirmed in her arms, waving his own in Shelley's direction.

"Ladies man, aren't we." She mused, laughingly passing him into Shelley's welcoming embrace.

She frowned at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

Shelley tensed at the table. It was too early for Brian to be returning home for his lunch– his job site was close enough that he liked to come home for lunch. But they weren't expecting visitors either.

There was a sharp rap on the front door followed by a deep male voice shouting. "Nancy? Hey Nance? It's me." Nancy rolled her eyes and hurried to the front door.

She let go of the breath she didn't know she was holding. She laughed nervously as she looked down in Charlie's adoring eyes.

"Well now. Shelley's just being a big fraidy cat, isn't she?" She asked. Charlie burped in response. She glanced up as Nancy returned, visitor in tow

"Hey Kev." She smiled. Charlie, fascinated by the new arrival, frantically windmilled his arms, straining in Wordy's direction. He laughingly plucked the child out of Shelley's grasp.

"Geez Charlie. Two beautiful women in the room and you want to hang with me? I have so much to teach you." He shook his head in mock exasperation.

"Don't go corrupting him too early." Nancy warned.

"Whyever not? I remember you spending a few nights corrupting me not so long ago." Wordy joked back, setting Charlie in his playpen amid his stuffed animals and toy trucks.

Shelley frowned. What did he mean by that. Had he and Nancy ever ... ? Really? She tried to shake the troublesome image from her head, but it was stuck. It gnawed a little bit. She looked down.

And frowning, looked back up until she met Wordy's gaze.

"Kevin. Why are you wearing your uniform?" She asked, suddenly serious. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm on duty." He answered, shifting from one foot to the other.

"What's wrong?" Nancy asked, resting a protective and reassuring hand on Shelley's shoulder. "What's going on?"

Wordy frowned. He hated the justice system sometimes. "Blake made bail. A judge deemed that he wouldn't be a flight risk given his low income, lack of passport and general worthlessness. So he's out for now. He's going to have to attend the hearing on Monday, but I have to tell you Shelley. The way the courts are backlogged with cases, jails are overcrowded, and the way these cases are usually resolved. It's not looking good for him getting jail time."

Shelley felt like she'd been punched. Blake was out. Oh god. Was he watching her right now. Her eyes darted to the window, checking for any signs of his presence. Her world, the safe little world she'd constructed over the past weeks, came crumbling down, like a sandcastle in the tide.

"It's awful the way things work. But he's a first time offender, no criminal record. Courts are lenient. He's claiming that his alcoholism drove him to it and that he'll seek help. Blah blah blah. It's bullshit but there's a good chance the judge might buy it." He hated the way she was looking at him. Devastated and tired and scared.

"We're going to do everything we can to protect you still, Shell." He moved foward, taking her hand in his. It was limp and cold.

"The restraining order will prevent him from going anywhere near you, the house, the restaurant. We can arrange for somebody to drive past the house and the diner to make sure everything is all right."

Her head snapped up. "Wait. Wait. He knows where I work?" Panic tinged her voice. "To keep me safe from here, you have to tell him where I am?"

"He has to know where it's illegal for him to go. And if he comes anywhere near you or the house, or whatever, he'll go back to jail."

"Unless he kills me first." Shelley whispered.

"He won't."

"You can't know that." She shot back.

"He won't laying a fucking hand on you Shelley. I promise." Wordy clasped her hand tighter. The fist around her heart eased and the panicked haze over her brain lifted somewhat. Wordy didn't make promises often. But he honoured them.

She was stronger, now. And smarter and braver. And she could handle this and anything that came along afterwards. She needed to start taking care of herself. She couldn't just fall apart all the damn time. She needed to stand on her own two feet.

"Okay." She nodded. "Okay." She rose to her feet, brushing nervous hands down her work apron. Change jingled in the right pocket.

"I've got an evening shift. So I'm going to go get showered." She turned, moving steadily towards the door. She paused. "And Wordy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for telling me – for coming here yourself. For all that you've done for me? I just wanted to say. Thanks." With that she disappeared down the hall.


	17. Sure Thing

AN: BAH - I'm sorry about how bad I've been at updating. In short, my computer fried and Sony was really reluctant to fix it. In fact. They couldn't fix it. They had to send me a new one, but the whole thing was a big long drawn out debacle resulting in me not having a computer for the last few weeks. Which is why I've been such a failure at reading fics and updating and all that jazz. But now that I have a new computer I hope to be better about putting up more chapters (wheeee) unless this computer decides to kamikaze itself as well. Here's hoping it _doesn't_. Technology tends to bite the dust around me.

* * *

There were many things Wordy loved about his job. One happened to be that when you illegally park a cop car you never get ticketed or towed. Ever.

Which was handy since some ass in a Mercedes had parked so poorly he managed to occupy the last two parking slots on the street. Wordy hoped a traffic cop – god what a thankless job – would come along and ticket the bastard.

He eased the car into a narrow opening under a no-park sign and turned the car to idle. He had approximately twenty minutes before Shelley arrived – he didn't want her to know he'd been there.

He slipped out of the car, cursing the mid-November winds, and jogged up to the café on the corner. It was a cheerful if average eatery, but he could see why Shelley liked it. It had an old-fashioned charm with its red leather booths and its long, stool-lined counter. And it smelled delightfully like sugar cookies.

It was thankfully mostly empty.

The woman behind the counter, a maternal-looking women in her mid-fifties with a flour-smeared apron, smiled in welcome.

"Hello, dear. Take a seat anywhere you like." She gestured absently.

"That's okay. I'm actually here to talk to you." Wordy said calmly.

"Oh." Her head snapped up, eyes wide with confusion. "Me? Whatever for?"

"It's about one of your employees? Shelley? Michelle Wooler?" Wordy responded.

"Michelle's a good girl. She couldn't be in any trouble. She's such a sweetie." She said resolutely, eyeing wordy up and down with suspicion.

"Of course not." Wordy responded quickly. "I'm a member of the Toronto Police Service…"

The woman interrupted him. "What? Has something happened to Shelley? What's wrong? Tell me what's going on." She nervously wiped her hands in her apron.

"No. No. Shelley is fine." He breathed deeply. He didn't want to divulge all of Michelle's history. She had told him the best part of this job was that nobody looked at her with pity or sympathy. She was normal. But it might be necessary for her safety.

"I want to see your badge." The woman behind the counter demanded. Wordy reached inside her coat, procuring his ID and badge. The woman took them carefully scrutinizing them. Wordy couldn't help but approve – it was the kind of advice he was constantly giving his younger sister Hailey. Always, _always, _ask for badge number and name.

"Ma'am, I'm a friend of Shelley's." Wordy patiently stated, waiting for the woman to return his badge.

"Looks legit." The woman said, briskly handing them back. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "I get antsy when people come around asking about my girls."

Wordy nodded. "I understand. I'm here unofficially." He paused, trying to formulate what he was going to say in his head.

"Would you be Kevin?" The woman's face lit up. "Kevin Wordsworth? She's told me about you! Sit down! Coffee is on the house, dear." She procured a mug and filled it with steaming hot coffee. Wordy gratefully accepted it, adding a cream and sugar.

After his first glorious sip he _really _understood why Shelley enjoyed working at the cafe.

He cleared his voice and tried again. "Ma'am. I'm not really sure how much Shelley has told you about … things. She's had a bit of a rough time this year. She had some, uhm, personal problems." Oh god. She was going to kill him. He made her sound like she was a crazy puppy-killer or a psycho or something.

The woman behind the counter leaned towards him. "Call me Barb. Yes. Well. Shelley hasn't mentioned it directly, but I figure, since you're a friend and a cop you won't mind me speculating. Feel free to set me straight on this. But I figure the rat-bastard of the soon-to-be-ex-husband – well, I'd say his fist took a liking to her fast, if you catch my drift."

Wordy gave the briefest of nods. "Yeah. He wasn't exactly Prince Charming." He noted dryly.

"I figured as much. Sometimes she just gets this look on her face. She always angles herself so she can see the door. She gets a real skittish look in the eye when the construction workers that come in after shift get a little rowdy. A little nervous." The woman sighed. She had hoped she was wrong.

"Well Blake's got bail. And his trial hearing is coming up. This week actually." Blake snorted. He hoped the asshole got what was coming to him. "I figure he's not going to try and swing by her house. She's staying with a friend whose husband is so large he could easily create a solar eclipse if he wanted. But I figure Blake might try and approach her here at work. Try to get her to drop the charges. Intimidate her a little."

He pulled Blake's mugshot out of his jacket pocket, placing it on the counter.

The woman sneered down at it. "This the guy?" She asked. "Imagine that. Hurting such a fine young woman. A man should cherish his wife."

Wordy agreed. "Preaching to the choir on that one, Barb. If Blake comes around at any time – asking about Shelley or shifts or anything I want you to call the police immediately. It's in violation of his parole and the restraining order if he comes within so much as twenty feet of that front door... And I'd personally love to see the look on his face when I shut him in a cage for the rest of his miserable life."

Wordy fished out a pen and pad of paper out of his jacket, jotting down his numbers. "If you've got any concerns or he shows up, call me. Anytime."

"Absolutely." The woman said earnestly, tucking the paper in her pocket.

He drained the rest of his coffee, noting he only had three more minutes before Shelley's bus would arrive and he'd be caught red handed, so to speak. He eased off the stool.

"Thanks for the coffee, Barb. And if Shelley asks? This never happened."

"Sure thing, sugar." She winked.


	18. Not Very Nice

Shelley balanced a tray of muffins on her hip, swaying lightly with the sound of the jazz music. Mr. Williams, who had to be at least ninety, always came in 4:00 every afternoon for tea and a scone. He never failed to bring along his portable radio, which he would proudly tell anyone, his grandson made for his high school science fair 12 years ago. He favoured old-timey blues.

Shelley simultaneously refilled mugs and took orders. And when her patrons left she'd wipe the tables and pocket the often tips. She couldn't complain. Her wages would allow her to get her own place. Nothing fancy – just something to call her own.

She liked working at the bakery. It was good pay, it was close enough to walk back to Nancy's. It was good work – it kept her mind and hands occupied. She loved the scents of bread in the morning. Her waitressing skills, which she'd honed at after school jobs in highschool, earned her decent money.

And she liked Barb, the bubbly mid-fifties woman who owned the bakery with her French-Canadian husband. She was encouraging and generous. She was constantly regaling Shelley with humorous stories of her two sons, or propositioning Shelley into going on a date with one. She complained that they always picked the most atrociously unsuitable girls.

Shelley glanced back through the open door to the kitchen. Barb was currently stationed in front of an industrial mixer, happily adding a fall of flour to the swirling mixing bowl.

A group of teenagers, voracious hunger pains subsided by the enormous amount of food they'd inhaled, slunk out of the front door. Shelley scanned the room. The diner was mostly empty now – the post-lunch pre-dinner lull would give her some time to restock the displays and reset the tables. She rounded the counter, striding forward to clear their dishes and cups.

When the bell over the door chimed the entrance of another customer Shelley called over her shoulder. "Sit anywhere you want."

"Hey Shelley." A gruff and unmistakable voice rang out in the small shop.

Shelley's blood turned to ice. She felt breathless. Trapped.

She scurried backwards, rapping into a chair and sending it skittering against the floor. She moved behind the counter, eager to put a barrier between herself and her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

She tried to speak, but found her mouth to dry. The air stung. The diner suddenly felt too warm and Mr. William's music sounded too sour.

She licked her lips and tried again.

"Blake – you're not supposed to be here." She said in a low voice. She was desperately trying to maintain her calm. She couldn't let him have control.

He looked around, assessing. He leaned forward over the counter and Shelley saw the bouquet of flowers he held in his hand. He smiled charmingly.

"What? A man's not allowed to come see his wife at work?"

She sent a panicked glance around the room. Mr. Williams and Barb appeared to be the only ones there. He wouldn't hurt them would he? Oh god.

"You can come home now." He said, his eyes downcast. "I messed up but I promise to do better next time. I just want you to come home. Where you belong. You won't have to work in dumps like this anymore."

"Blake. You're not allowed to come see me.: She responded. "I want you to leave Blake."

She was too far away to reach the phone – it was just down the counter but she'd never be able to grab it in time, let alone dial 9-1-1. The continued whirring of the machine told her that Barbara hadn't noticed her distress. She was utterly alone in this.

"Baby." He pleaded, his voice quivering just a little. "Shelley, honey. I love you. I just want to you to come home. I _need you._"

She swept a clammy hand over her apron and hazarded a glance at Blake. His eyes were moist – like he was holding back tears – and full of apology. But behind them was a cold and calculating edge – one she couldn't and didn't see before.

He knew exactly which cards to play, Shelley thought with disgust. He knew exactly how to play her. He always had. Not anymore.

"No." She said weakly. And repeated it once again, this time more resolute. "No. Blake. You need to leave. We're done."

He reached across the counter, snagging her wrist and yanking her hard towards him.

"That's not very nice Shelley." He hissed.

Mr. Williams shouted out in surprise and outrage. The hum of the mixer in the kitchen halted and Barb appeared in the door, wide eyed.

"Stop it Blake. Stop it." She held back the whimper as he twisted her arm more.

Barb grabbed the corded phone off the wall, punching in a series of numbers.

"Bitch, what do you think you're doing?" Blake screamed, spotting her.

Barb snagged a knife from the counter, waving in Blake's directions. Just in case he got any ideas. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear, speaking quickly into the receiver. "Hello? Yes. He's here. We need help. Right now. Yes. Yes. I can do that."

Blake lunged across the counter, attempting to yank the phone out of Barb's hand. Shelley had no option. She hurled the pot of tea she'd been preparing for Mr. Williams at him – he shrieked as the boiling liquid splashed across his neck, shoulders and face, reeling as he tried to retreat from her attack. He clutched his head, moaning in agony.

He reared a fist back, blinding swinging in her direction, roaring with fury and pain. Mr. Williams' cane swung out, catching him around the knees sending him sprawling to the ground.

Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing ever closer. Blake sprung to his feet and charged out, leaving the door clanging in his wake.

Shelley's knees buckled. Leaning hard against the counter she slid down until she rested on the floor, curling her legs up to rest her forehead on her knees. She tried to breathe deeply, sucking in huge gulps of air but she found herself unsteady.

The diner door smashed as the it was flung open once again, and the sound of the police sirens resonated in the tiny café.

"Shelley!" Wordy voice was panicked. He quickly took in the puddles of hot water on the floor, the array of utensils and broken ceramic plates and mugs.

"Son of a bitch:" He muttered. He vaulted over the countertop and crouched before Shelley. She was sickly pale, shaking hands clutching at her downcast head.

"Hey Shell." He murmured gently. "Hey there." He gently lifted her chin. Her pupils were dialated – she was in shock.

She threw her arms around him. "He came."

"I know." He stroked a comforting hand up her back. His radio buzzed and Marks' voice crackled through the air.

"Wordy – I need back up. Alley between Johnson and Brooker."

"Go." Shelley said. "Go after him." She tried to push herself off the ground. Her feet felt clumsy.

Wordy hesitated for a moment before taking off at a spring.

Shelley turned into Barb's motherly embrace and wept.

AN: If you're reading please review. Love or hate it. I just like to know people are reading. Mad Love.


	19. Arresting Officer

Wordy accelerated, feet pounding as he raced across the pavement. He dodged in front of a speeding cab, ignoring the blaring horn as he sped towards the alleyway. His shoes skidded across the icy pavement as he took the sharp turn between two towering brick buildings.

Marks and Blake were circling one another mid-alley, each warily eyeing their opponent. Blake snarled like a trapped bear.

Wordy moved behind his partner. The alley's exits would soon be blockaded by the police cars they'd radioed in. The sirens weren't too far off. There would be no escape for Blake.

Blake snarled. "If it isn't my little friend _Wordsy_."

Wordy fought back the urge to draw his gun. "Blake." His voice was laced with contempt and disgust. "You know I'm going to take a lot of pleasure in arresting your dumb ass."

"We'll see about that." Blake smirked. "You think you can just help yourself to my wife because I ain't there? Shelley loves me. She loved me then, she loves me now. She never felt anything for you but _pity._" He snarled.

"She's not going to be your wife much longer. You never deserved her." Wordy said calmly. He could make out the faint outline of an object riding against Blake's waist under his coat. Could be a weapon. He couldn't risk having Blake draw a gun on them.

He weighed his options. Blake was a manipulative, controlling son of a bitch. He wouldn't hesitate to draw his gun if he thought it would give him power over the situation.

"You were always jealous because I had her and you couldn't. You never interested her. Just boring, plain, dependable old Wordsworth. Such a good _friend._ But she never wanted you like she wanted me. Like she _wants me._" Blake panted.

"He's fucking delusional." Marks muttered. "He thinks she still wants him? He's crazy. She's terrified of the bastard."

Wordy took a deep breath. God forgive him. "She never loved you, Blake. You were just a substitute. You were just a decoy. A way for her to get out of her Mother's house. Me and her. We go way back. We've been together all along, Blake. We've been laughing at you. Behind your back. She told me all about how stupid you are. After you go to work I'd come over, crawl in your bed and make love to your beautiful little wife. She's a real wild cat, Shell is. Real fiery. How you can't _please _her. She's never felt more alive than when she's in bed with me."

Blake's panting deepened, his face growing more red. Marks glanced over, confusion etched on his face, but shrugged quickly and focused his attention back on Blake who was quaking with anger.

"That's a lie." Blake screamed.

"It's not a lie. How else would I know about the sweet little star-shaped birthmark. It's on the inside of her thigh – just below …" His voice trailed off as Blake lunged forward. Wordy slammed his fist upwards.

Blake hurtled back against the wall. Wordy gripped Blake's throat, hoisting him back up to his feet. He pressed a hand against the molted red flesh where Shelley had thrown the boiling water. Blake blanched, moaning in agony.

"Listen to me, you scum bag. You're going to leave Shelley alone. You're going directly to jail. These assault charges are going to stick and you are going to spend the next decade locked in a prison cell with a boyfriend named Butch who hasn't seen the world beyond Kingston Penitentiary since the Challenger exploded. You're a dirt bag who beats up on women. You're pathetic and you're weak. Shelley always deserved better than you."

Blake hissed in response.

Wordy pumped his fist into Blake's face sending his unconcious form crumpling to the alley. He easily flipped up jacket, patting down his sides. He pulled the pistol from his waistband with two fingers.

"Are you going to go all avenging-hero on me and say that was for Shelley?" Marks asked.

Wordy grinned. "No. That was mostly just for me."

Officers jogged up the alley, too narrow for them to pull their cars any closer. He hauled the prone and groaning Blake to his feet.

"Haul him down to the precinct. Charge him with assault, violation of a restraining order, violation of his parole, resisting arrest, disturbance of the peace, attempted armed robbery, assault a police officer and a carrying a concealed weapon and anything else you can think up on the drive over including being an arrogant asshole." Marks ordered the uniforms as Wordy handed Blake over, jostling him as they fit the restraints over his wrists.

Wordy marched back down the alley – back towards the café. He had to make sure Shelley was okay.

"Quite the show." Marks mused, hurrying to keep pace.

"Whatever." Wordy rolled his shoulders.

"You egged him on." Marks commented.

"Sure. That way I get to punch him in the face and don't have civil rights activists coming down on my ass for police brutality." Wordy responded. It wasn't a complete lie. But it certainly wasn't the whole truth.

"He could have killed you." Marks exclaimed, exasperated

Wordy scoffed. "That puntz? Un-bloody likely."

"You saw the gun." It dawned on Marks. "You saw the weapon. You figured the best way to keep him from drawing it on us was to agitate him into hand-to-hand combat. If you pissed him off there was a chance he'd attack you out of blind rage, forgetting about the gun." Marks deduced.

"Well it worked." Wordy seemed vaguely uncomfortable, jabbing his fists into the pockets of his trousers.

"I'm just wondering how you knew about her birthmark. Wordy. You can't get involved with her."

"Why not?" Wordy asked. He hadn't intended to respond like that. He shouldn't have said anything at all. He didn't want or intend to fall in love with Shelley. He couldn't afford to complicate things. He might just end up driving her away. Goddamn it.

He spotted her through the dinner window. Her hair, knocked loose from its bun, cascaded around her pale face. She looked ... lost.

Marks snagged his arm, digging in his heels to stop Wordy's forward momentum.

Marks persisted. "She's still married." Wordy snorted. _Not for much longer. _"She's just gotten out of an abusive relationship. She needs a friend. She needs somebody to listen. She doesn't need some horny bastard sniffing at her heels."

"It's not like that." Wordy responded, not taking his eyes off Shelley. She lifted a delicate hand to rake through her hair.

"No? Tell me what it's like." Mark demanded. "You tell me what it's like, Wordy. Because I'm concerned."

"It's just… we're friends. And she needs somebody to look out for her. I just want to protect her. I want to help." He said angrily. It was hard to express the reasoning. It was hard to put something he'd felt half his life into words.

"This is going to court Wordy. You know that. And it's not going to look good if the arresting officer has a _personal relationship _of that nature with the wife. Jury's going to think that's suspicious – they might think that you're exaggerating your reports for her. They might think you two made it all up to sully his reputation and make it easier for her to petition for a divorce. It could be used against you both." Marks warned.

Wordy considered.

"Okay." He finally conceded. "What do I do?"

"Go the station and file a report." Marks said. "I can take it from here."

Wordy glanced over Marks shoulder to the diner. He took a deep breath. Then another. Finally, he turned on his heel, stalking back towards the police car. Marks joined the growing crowd in the small corner cafe as he pulled the patrol vehicle back onto the busy street, disappearing amidst the rush-hour traffic.

Shelley watched as the car slid back into the bustling rhythm of the city, brow furrowed with confusion. Frowning, she chewed her lip and nervously clenched her fingers, wrapping her long around herself.

"Hey Shelley." He smiled gently, taking a seat on a stood beside where she stood, braced against the counter. "Heard you had a bit of a rough go of things. You want to talk about it? I've got to get a report on the violation of parole anyway – so I can give a full account of today's events at the hearing tomorrow."

"I just ... I didn't really think he'd come back." She paused. "Where did Wordy go?" She asked. She thought he would come back – she craned her neck. Where had he gone? Was he just moving the car? Surely he'd come back.

"He's arresting officer." Marks replied. "He's got to book Blake, fill out the forms."

"Oh." Her heart sank a little. She busied her hands by clearing off the scattered dishes and rubble on the counter. "You don't mind do you? I just need to keep busy. It'll keep me from panicking."

"By all means." Marks fished a pad and pen from his deep coat pockets and prepared to jot down her account.

"Uhm. The booth of teenagers from Mac Secondary had just cleared out..."

* * *

AN: Thanks for the beautiful reviews you guys - it's a wonderful thing for a writer to know that somebody is reading their work and that they're enjoying it. Especially you, Canadian19, whose words of encouragement have lovely to read. No need to worry - I haven't experienced anything close to that of Shelley. I'm just an empathetic person with a dark imagination and a somewhat malfunctioning computer.

I won't be updating for a while - I have some crazy uni stuff to do (cross your fingers for me guys - I'm applying for some summer programmes), but I'm hoping to get another chapter up Thursday maybe?


	20. Stronger Than You Think

The sun had barely peaked over the tree-studded lanes of L'amoreaux, but Shelley had been awake for hours. Her tea had slowly grown icy cold, the mug clenched between half-frozen fingers. Each breath resulted in a white plume of mist which evaporated into the chilly air. There had still been no snow, but it wouldn't be long.

Nancy found her there, resting on the back porch, shortly after seven. Shelley didn't hear her approach, gently padding across the deck to stand behind her.

She wasn't sure how Blake would affect her again. It had scared her – shaken her, really. She'd come a long way since Thanksgiving – her confidence was growing with every day. She was slowly recovering the spirit that Blake had tried so hard to extinguish. There were flashes of the bright, loving, generous and lively girl that she had come to regard as her sister. Nancy could not have been prouder. But she was terrified that Blake's appearance would ruin all that progress and hard work. She was terrified of losing Shelley again.

"I'm stronger than you think I am." Shelley spoke softly, glancing over her shoulder.

Nancy sat heavily beside her, wrapping her arm companionably around Shelley's shoulders.

"Yeah. I figure you probably are." She'd have to be. The trial was starting next week. Blake wouldn't go easy either – he'd already proven that he would go to any lengths to _keep _Shelley. "You nervous?" she asked.

"About the trial? Not especially." Shelley sighed. She was more anxious about the fact that Wordy was nowhere to be found. A few weeks ago barely a day passed that she didn't see him. He'd find little excuses to come by. He wanted to see Charlie. He needed to borrow a tool from Brian. Shelley enjoyed it. She never realized how much she missed Wordy after graduation until he'd come back to L'Amoreaux. He had an easy way about him. There was something … comfortable about being with Wordy. It was easy to fall back into their old friendship.

But he'd been mysteriously absent since the events at the diner. And the loss had ripped a new tiny tear in her heart.

"You're worried about Wordy." Nancy sighed. She couldn't blame Shelley. She was worried herself.

Shelley absently ran her fingers over the mouth of the mug again, gently circling its ceramic brim. "Do you think he's angry with me?" She asked quietly.

"No." Nancy responded immediately. "Never. He's not angry at you. It's not your fault he came back. It's not your fault Blake did what he did. Wordy knows that. He cares about you. We all do." She hugged Shelley tighter. She didn't understand it either.

Shelley rested her head on Nancy's shoulder. "It's weird how some things change so much but some things don't change at all."

"Yeah. Who'd have thought this is where we'd end up." Nancy agreed. "Life is a journey, Shell. You get to pick where you go with it."

Shelley snorted. "Thanks Mrs Dalai Lama. Very enlightening."

Nancy laughed. "Okay, that was corny, but it's also true. Brian was a detour and look where that ended up taking me. I've never been happier. I'm proud of you for taking your life back. It's hard, but you did it, babe. You and me – we've had harder paths than most, but we didn't let that define us. We're more than that."

They watched the sun rise further in silence, gently drawing higher in the sky. The hazy light sharpened and the fleeting edges of night disappeared from the horizon.

"You'll be a good mother someday, Michelle. I'm just glad that day didn't happen with Blake. I always hated the slimey bastard." Nancy squeezed her hand.

Shelley nodded, opening her mouth to agree. But the words wouldn't come, lodged in her throat. Her cold hand dropped from Nancy's.

"What?" Nancy quickly asked, concerned. "Shelley what's wrong."

"Oh God." She murmured, rubbing her sleeve across her face, suddenly nauseous. "Oh good God."

Nancy sucked in a breath, shocked. "Shelley. Do you think you might be pregnant?"

"Oh god." Shelley repeated again, seemingly oblivious to Nancy's question. She _couldn't_ be.

"Shelley." Nancy gripped her shoulders, shaking her gently_. "Shelley are you pregnant." _This time more forcefully.

"I don't know." She answered woodenly.

AN: Crazy amounts of work and writers block severely delayed this chapter. I was sitting on the train on the way to my aunt's wedding when three things happened in rapid succession. The guy across from me starting talking about his wife Nancy, I got an e-mail that somebody (Thanks _Smartstar247_) subscribed to this story and, lastly, David Paetkau came on CTV Olympic morning to give a review of the opening ceremonies (Anyone else catch that? He was wearing the Canadian Hockey Jersey - which just made me love him more). I figured it was probably time to come back.

Anyway, like it or hate it please review.


	21. Pawn

"How long has it been since you had your monthly visitor?" Nancy asked frantically, her mind racing.

"I … I don't know. Three months maybe?" Shelley whispered, still shocked.

"Three months!" Nancy exclaimed. "THREE?"

Shelley frantically pushed her hair back from her face, suddenly burning hot despite the cold morning air. "I don't know. I just … figured it was because I was stressed. . I was never regular and then towards the end and things were getting rocky. But I've never missed two in a row."

"He threw out my pills." She remembered suddenly.

"The night you left him." Nancy countered. Jesus Christ.

"Who knows if he's messed with them before. He'd been making noises about kids for months." Shelley persisted.

"Do you feel light headed? Nauseous?"

"No. But you didn't feel any of that with Charlie." It was undeniably true. Nancy's pregnancy with Charlie had gone swimmingly well – no swollen ankles or morning sickness.

Shelley felt queasy, her stomach taking a slick dive. "Oh god. Oh dear god."

Nancy grabbed her hand, hauling her back towards the house. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. We'll just go the pharmacy and buy you a test. Two. A dozen."

* * *

The last time Shelley had been in _that _section of the drugstore she'd been fifteen, clenching Nancy's hand as her friend carefully selected a ClearBlue test and smuggled it into her purse. They'd snuck into the staff bathroom and prayed desperately it had been negative.

Now she was the one standing numbly in front of the rows of boxes of First Response and E.P.T. as Nancy frantically read the backs of boxes, hastily shoving the rejects back onto the shelf, tossing the ones she chose into a green shopping basket. But they were still praying for the same result.

When Nancy was satisfied with her selections she guided Shelley towards the checkout, dumping the boxes out, tumbling helter skelter across the conveyor belt. Shelley reached into her bag for her wallet. The grating of the zipper seemed to echo in her ears.

"Well, well." Shelley's blood turned ice cold.

"Bethany Larson." Nancy sneered at the cashier. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you again but I'd hate to lie."

Bethany took in the mountain of boxes, Shelley's open wallet, glancing up as she began to scan them through. "My my. Somebody's been busy since their separation." She smiled coldly, tossing back her mane of long blonde hair.

"They're mine." Nancy snarled. Probably a little too quickly. "Shelley's just … buying gum." She reached across the conveyor and grabbed a pack of Trident, tossing it on the conveyor behind the pregnancy tests.

"Don't you work fast." Bethany snorted, ringing in the last boxes. "Never could expect a slut like you to keep it in her pants."

"Yeah. Well. My _husband _seems to be okay with that." She smiled sweetly as she dropped that bombshell. Bethany was the kind of women who was intensely jealous of other women's happy marriages. "He just can't keep his hands off me."

Bethany's face flushed with anger. "Yeah? So that's why he's been coming around sniffing at me like the dog he is." She was grasping at straws, Shelley thought. Brian was madly in love with Nancy.

Nancy laughed, throwing the money for the pregnancy tests down on the conveyor. "As if he'd touch a bitter bitch like you, Beth. He's not some 40 year old math teacher you can seduce with your peroxide hair and skanky clothes." Beth gasped, flustered and unable to respond.

Shelley choked on her laughter, carefully counting out the change for her pack of unwanted gum.

"Bye Beth." Nancy smirked, turning on her heel and striding towards the exit. Shelley hurried after her, stumbling towards Nancy's car illegally parked in front of the PharmaPlus.

She collapsed into the passenger's side, barely registering the sound of Nancy's door slamming shut.

"Shelley?" Nancy asked with concern. Shelley's shoulders were shaking, heaving up and down. Her hair had fallen down around her face, concealing it from view. She reached her hand out tentatively placing it upon her shoulder.

Shelley's head whipped around.

She was … _laughing?_

Shelley gasped in a breath, trying to calm herself, but to no avail. She couldn't stem the near hysterical laughter.

"Did you see her face? When you brought up her affair with Mr. Freestone?" She doubled over again, bracing a hand on the dashboard as Nancy punched the car into reverse, swinging out it the parking lot, grinning wildly.

* * *

Nancy pulled into an Esso Parking lot, plugging five dollars worth of gas into her half-full tank before retrieving the bathroom key from the bored teenaged attendant. As an afterthought she grabbed a jug of cranberry juice and another of Coors Lite.

Grabbing the bag of tests from the floor of the car she tromped around the back of the station to the tiny bathroom. They

She locked the door behind them, dumping the bag of boxes onto the damp counter. She selected two at random, ripping the flimsy cardboard packaging away. Reading the instructions she slid the bottles towards Shelley.

"Beer? Nancy I can't drink this if I'm pregnant."

"That's not for you. That's for me." Nancy said, not looking up from the paper. "The cranberry juice is for you. Natural diuretic. Chug it. It'll make you want to pee like a freaking racehorse."

Shelley obediently cracked the seal on the bottle, lifting it to her lips. She hated cranberry juice.

Nancy ripped open two more boxes, lining up the tests along the counter, discarding the boxes. She cracked the top of her beer, lifting it to her lips and taking a grateful sip.

"You ready?" She asked, nervously. She prayed to _god _the test was negative.

"No. I still don't have to go." Shelley responded frantically. She was lying. Her bladder was bursting. She wanted to delay this as long as possible. As long as she didn't know she didn't have to face it.

Nancy reached over, wiggling the faucet so water streamed out. Shelley clenched her jaw, urging her body not to respond. Her luck, as it were, had run out.

Nancy passed her a cup from the dispenser above the sink. Shelley faintly wondered if anybody actually drank out of the paper cups dispensed in dirty gas-station bathrooms.

"You going to give me some privacy?" She asked. Nancy rolled her eyes and turned her back.

"Didn't think so." Shelley responded dryly.

* * *

Shelley stared down at the flimsy paper cup, brimming with little white sticks. Several of them displayed a little flashing hour glass. She kind of felt like they were the countdown clock on a bomb, slowing ticking away the time until an enormous, earth-shattering explosion.

"What do we do now?" She asked.

"We wait." Nancy said, glancing down at her watch. The second hand dragged round the face reluctantly.

"Please." Shelley murmured. "Please, please, please." _Be negative _she added silently.

"What will you do if you are …" Nancy could quite bring herself to say the word _pregnant._

"I don't know." Shelley answered wearily.

Nancy scuffed a sneakered foot across the uneven tiles of the bathroom floor. "When I was fifteen and I was sure I was knocked up I gave some serious thought to adoption. Give some diabetes-inducingly-sweet couple the family they'd always dreamed of."

Shelley nodded woodenly. A family. A whole, loving family – something she could never give her baby. She'd dreamed of having a child for so long – growing up she'd thought about the family she'd have one day.

She'd always known what she wanted in life. A loving home and children to fill it. Once upon a time she'd thought Blake would help her build both and that dream had taken a sharp detour into a nightmare. Sometimes when she held Charlie she'd think about what it would be like to hold a child of her own, one made in love, and her heart felt a little lighter. She was starting to believe in that dream again. But…

"If I kept the baby Blake would use it as a pawn against me. He'd always be in my life. He'd have parental rights and there would be custody battles." She braced herself against the counters.

The flashing hourglasses of the pregnancy tests continued to pulse.

"No. We wouldn't let that happen. No judge would allow him paternal rights after what he did to you." Nancy insisted, but a cold sweat had taken over her body. A baby would tie Shelley to that bastard for life.

"I'd have to leave." Shelley stated, pushing off the counter once again. "I'd have to leave L'Amoreaux. He'd find me here. I could just leave. And he'd never know where I went or that he had a son or daughter. He'd never know. We'd be safe."

Nancy's heart squeezed in her chest at the thought of losing her best friend. She viciously wiped away a tear. Goddamned Blake.

"I love you Shelley." She grabbed Shelley in a tight hug.

"I love you too." Shelley murmured.

Nancy blinked, hey eyes barely registering what she was seeing.

"They're done!" She shouted, grabbing Shelley's arm. "They're ready." They scrambled for the cup of pregnancy tests, scooping one up at random.

"One line! One line!"

"What does that mean?" Shelley asked, rifling through the tests. They were an array of lines and colours. Christ. Who knew there were so many options.

"You're _not _pregnant." Shelley was grabbed in a bone-crushing hug.

"They're negative?" Shelley asked, daring to hope.

"They're ALL negative." Nancy responded, spinning her arms in a circle. "All eight. Every single last one of them."

It was like an enormous weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Like she could breath again. Her heart raced a little faster. She laughed manically and, with a sweeping shove, sent the tests and their ripped boxes and instructions hurtling into the garbage can.

Slinging an arm around Nancy's shoulders, she wrenched open the bathroom door and swiped Nancy's forgotten beer from its spot perilously close to the edge of the counter. Tilting it back she finished it off, the cool liquid hitting her dry throat like honey.

"We're going to need more beer." She said, laughing as she kicked the door closed behind them.

..........

...3...

AN: Balancing school and writing is a biznatcho. I'm on break right now, in the Dominican. I had to bring my computer because of essays but now that I'm done I can do fanfiction at night instead! Yessss! Somebody at York at Seneca posted pictures of Flashpoint filming at their campus so I'm getting excited for the new season.

Yeah - for being an actor David Paetkau seems pretty soft-spoken and slightly camera shy.

Anyway, puh-lease review. It kinda sorta makes my day/week/month when I get reviews. It lets me know people are actually reading my stuff, which is always a nice feeling.


	22. I Will Carry You

Wordy tapped his hand rapidly against the drum of the steering wheel. He glanced over at the house – only the upstairs' bedroom window was lit, casting its golden light against the frosted lawn. He sighed unhappily. He'd spoken with Nancy yesterday, who had assured him that while Blake's attack had shaken and frightened Shelley, she was coping.

Shelley's case, which had been delayed by Blake's attack, was appearing before the jury tomorrow. Wordy scowled. Bastard would probably cop to the domestic and get a few months in a minimum security prison. On the plus side, Blake's actions had expediated the divorce petition, which had stalled under Blake's refusal to agree to the divorce. It was a minor consolation.

Even though Marks had advised him against it, here he was at her doorstep. He wanted to make sure she was okay for tomorrow. The past few days he'd laid low and stayed away – he'd followed the advice the department had given him. Maintain a professional distance. But it was hard when it was Shelley, the shy, beautiful, generous girl he'd known since the second grade. Shelley was the girl who'd taken pity on him in compulsory Home Economics 11 and had fixed his botched and mangled sewing, allowing him to squeak by with a C-. It was Shelley, so it simply couldn't be the same.

Wordy slid out of the car, striding across the lawn to the front door. He would check in on her, see how she was feeling. Try to ease any worries she had about court tomorrow. Maybe he'd swing by the gy, before going home, ease his own mind with a few rounds with a punching bag. Get a solid five hours sleep.

There was a tremendous crash from inside the house and Wordy froze mid-stride. He didn't wait more than a minute, hurtling towards the front door. It was mercifully unlocked – he'd have to discuss that with Nancy and Shelley later. He paused at the entrance, reaching behind his back for his holster before remembering he'd left it at the station in his locker. Glancing around, he snatched up Brian's hockey-stick, propped up against the closet doors.

He edged his way towards the kitchen, where a deep, slurred voice was letting loose a string of curses that shocked even him. He reached into the darkness of the room and snapped the light-switch into the on position.

Nancy groaned, clapping unsteady hands over her eyes, losing her tenuous grip on the counter. She stumbled backwards, rapping her hip against the window.

"Christ bloody Jesus, Wordy." She grumpily muttered.

Wordy lowered the stick. "Nancy?" He asked, bewildered. "What the hell is going on."

"Wordy." Nancy whined, sliding down to sit on the cool, laminated floor. "Wordy it's _bright _in here."

Wordy took mercy upon her, flipping the main light off so the room was illuminated solely by the glowing numbers of the microwave clock. He strode over, lowering himself to crouch on the ground in from of Nancy. He got a whiff of her pungent breath, reeling backwards.

"You're _drunk?_" He asked incredulously. "You went _drinking _today?"

"Of course not." Nancy scoffed, patting his cheek. "We didn't _go _anywhere. We stayed right here with our friends Captain Morgan and Alexander Keiths."

"We?" Wordy glanced around. "Where's Brian? Where's Shelley? Where's Charlie?" He asked, carefully removing the concern from his voice.

"Charlie and Bri are at the cottage – they'll be back in the morning. She's napping." Nancy shrugged a shoulder.

"Where?" Wordy grit his teeth.

"Rice Lake. Oh. You mean Shell? The bathroom?" Nancy, responded, half-quizzically.

"What were you thinking pulling the night before the court date?"

"Had to celebrate." Nancy answered, stretching her arms above her head.

"Celebrate _what._" Wordy was rapidly losing his patience for this.

"Shelley's baby."

Wordy felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Shelley was pregnant? Good god. Christ. The news sent him reeling. "_What?"_ he finally managed to sputter.

"Shelley's baby. We were at the Pharmaplus and Bethany saw us buying, like, a hundred RapidResponse she took. I don't like her. She's got ugly hair."

Wordy ground his teeth. He wanted to shake Nancy. "Shelley's pregnant?"

Nancy eyed him. "No of course not." She laughed. "How utterly ridiculous." She doubled over now, sides heaving.

"You said you were celebrating Shelley's baby."

"Did i?" She tilted her head. "I mean. Shelley's non baby. She thought maybe she was, but then we went and took the tests, which we didn't steal I'll have you know." She shook a finger at him in an exaggerated fashion. "Paid for them this time. Not like that time where I stole one. I didn't have money for one. That was when I was dating Snake. I think his name was Snake. I thought he was_ dreamy_. Ew, right? Totally ew!"

Wordy flinched. "I'm a cop, Nance. Don't tell me these things. For Christ's sake, get to the point."

"We thought she was pregnant so we did some tests. Shelley was talking about moving. If they were pregnant because when Blake got out of prison he'd hurt them. Can you imagine Blake as a father?" Nancy shuttered. "But he's not because Shell's not pregs. You're going to put him away, right Wordy? You're gonna make sure he goes away."

Wordy's hatred for Blake bubbled up inside him, clenching with angry fists around his heart. His stomach pitched at the thought of Shelley leaving.

"I'm going to do my best." He said, standing once again. "All right, let's find Shelley and get you back into bed, darling. You're both going to have a long day tomorrow."

He gently eased open the bathroom door. Shelley lay, curled on her side, on the floor hands tucked beneath her head. Her long hair pooled around her, glinting in the light from the hallway. She looked so peaceful, chest gently rising and falling with each breath. Wordy leaned down.

"Shelley?" He whispered.

"Mmmmhm." She murmured, sleepily stretching out her arms, brushing them against his. She rolled closer. Wordy rubbed his chest. It felt … strange. It was like he couldn't breathe.

Nancy peered over his shoulder. "Maybe you should carry her Wordy." She suggested.

Wordy slipped his arms around her, gently lifting her off the bathroom floor. Shelley hung loosely in his arms a moment until Wordy shifted her weight, drawing her closer against his chest. Her arms slipped up, linking around his neck. She sleepily nuzzled her head into his shoulder. His skin felt flush where her warm breath tickled his neck. Turning sideways he edged out the bathroom door, slowly carrying her towards her bedroom, careful not to jar or wake her. Nancy had disappeared into her own room – Wordy could hear a faint snoring from upstairs.

He laid Shelley gently on the bed, tugging the blanks over her. He picked up the alarm clock on the bureau, turning it over to stare at the dials on the back. He scratched his head. Who knew something so simple would have so many freaking knobs. He sat on bed, flipping the alarm clock over as he fiddled with the gadgets. When he was moderately sure that he'd set the alarm properly he shifted, preparing to rise. A hand reached out and gripped his.

"Don't." Shelley murmured dozily.

Wordy cleared his throat. "Don't what?" He asked lightly.

"Go. Don't go." She nestled nearer.

Wordy wasn't sure what to say. He stared at her mutely.

"I thought I was pregnant." She sighed. "But I'm not. Tomorrow I'll be free of him. Totally free."

"Yeah. Tomorrow." Wordy agreed.

"Why didn't you come back?" Shell asked drowsily. "Why didn't you come back after you arrested Blake. I thought you would come back."

Wordy rubbed his eyes, suddenly very weary.

"I'm sorry Shell. I wanted to." He said earnestly.

"Are you mad at me?" She asked.

"No. No Shelley. I couldn't be angry with you about that. It wasn't your fault." He responded. He leaned in placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, like he would a small child. "Go to sleep Shelley."

"Okay." She responded easily, shifting to her backs and dropping into a deep slumber.

.

.

AN: Thanks for the awesome replies - you guys are wonderful. I heard back from my summer programmes and I'm going to be spending part of the summer on an archaeologicial dig in Italy! Very excited! Anyway, have a lovely day - please review if you have time or the inclination because I seriously love reading them.


	23. Nice Shoes

Wordy rolled stiff shoulders, craning his head to the right and left in an attempt to dislodge the insistent cramp in his neck. It had been a long night – by the time he'd gotten home he'd barely had the energy to make it to the couch where he'd crashed, exhausted and unable to move the extra feet to his bedroom door. Hence he woke up, head wedged uncomfortably under the armrest. He'd gotten a pitiful three hours of sleep. Nonetheless he was alert, scanning the long, marble hallways.

It was court day.

Blake was finally going to get what was coming to him, the slimy-ass bastard. He was fucking _thrilled _at the prospect of Blake spending the foreseeable future behind bars. As far away from Shelley as possible.

He glanced down at his hands, clenched tightly on his knees. He wasn't a perfect person. Sometimes he was jealous or bitter or angry. And though he knew too well the sweet addicting rush of adrenalin that came when fist connected with flesh he'd never raised a fist to a woman or child except with the intent to prevent them from harming others in the line of duty. And he'd never done so with the intent to hurt, but rather to protect.

He knew violence – knew it's gritty lusty appeal. But he'd always walked that straight and fine line, using it only when absolutely necessary.

He heard a distinct clatter of heels on stone and glanced up sharply. Shelley hurried towards him, shoulders hunched low.

"Wordy." She said, in genuine surprise. She sat beside him brushing a light kiss across his cheek. "I'm so glad you came."

His hand felt … hollow and tingly. He flexed his hand, trying to shake the strange sensation from his fingertips. He glanced around quickly. Nobody else seemed to be paying them any attention. Which was good since the ice was already thin on his participation in this case anyway.

"Yeah. Of course." He said, leaning back. "I told you I would."

"I know you did. But I'm still happy that you came." Shelley said, twisting her ringless hands together. She liked the look of them without the oafish ring Blake had placed on her years ago. They looked strong and capable.

"I'm sorry about last night. We got a little carried away, Nancy and I."

"You were just excited about not bearing the spawn of Satan. Totally understandable." Wordy ruffled her hair. He liked the feel of it. Like … warm silk.

Wordy nodded silently. He spotted Nancy as she swung through the doors from security checks. He almost missed her; she was dressed uncharacteristically conservatively. No splash of colour, no flash of skin, no sky-scraping heels and no long, loose hair. She was dressed in a pair of slacks and a dark blue turtleneck, paired with some incredibly dowdy shoes. Her usually unruly mane of hair was tucked back into a soft bun. She looked soft and maternal and sweet. She spotted them through the thick crowd of people – busy day at the courts – and began to slip through the mobs of people towards them when Shell's lawyer, seemingly out of nowhere, swept in, nabbing her by the sleeve.

"Meg is pretty intense. She didn't want to use Nancy at first. Dodgy past and all. But … Nancy must have said something that changed her mind because she's on the witness list." Shelley noted, eyes moving across the lobby, following Wordy's.

"Well. She is the best." Wordy shrugged. He'd never heard the dragon-bitch Margaret Hardiff called Meg before. But Hardiff – well, she was, quite simply, the best. And, as he'd served for her several times as witness, he knew she was thorough and incredibly competitive. She hated to lose. And, although she focused in major criminal law, she had a soft spot for cases regarding domestic abuse. Which made her perfect to handle Shelley's case.

"What did you have to do to get her to take the case?" Shelley asked, hand resting on his forearm. He tensed.

"Don't know what you're talking about. It just happened to _mention _it to her and she thought it would be an interesting case." Wordy said off handedly.

"That's the thing. It's not interesting. It's textbook. It's boring." Shelley replied calmly. There was a momentary lapse in the conversation.

"Maybe she owed me one." Wordy was reluctant to admit.

Shelley shook her head, exasperated with his stubbornness. "Thank you."

"You should be thanking Hardiff. She's the one who's going to land him behind bars." His palms were sweating.

"Yes. And I have. But I want to thank you too." She

"Are you nervous?" He asked.

She nodded in reply. "Terrified."

"Don't be." He said, grinning. "I think the only place with more cops right now might be HQ."

She glanced out at the looming crowd of people milling between the open doors. Indeed, she spotted at least a dozen of the distinct blue uniforms of the metro police.

"I'm not scared of him hitting me. He really can't hurt me anymore. It's just … I just don't want to see him." Shell said. "Is that weird? We were married for five years. We dated for two before that. Seven years of my life. And I don't want to see him ever again. I'm so happy without him."

"Michelle." Hardiff's nasal voice rang through the crowd. Before either could react Margaret Hardiff's scowling face emerged from between two bodies. "Out of the way, out of the WAY." She boomed.

For such a small woman, she had an extraordinarily piercing voice. At five foot one and a half with grey hair fully teased, she was a minute woman but people eagerly and quickly scampered out of her war path.

"What are you two doing." She hissed. Wordy shrugged, ignoring the urge to shrivel under her stare. Christ. She had to be a mother. Only a mother can perfect a glare like that. "I told you. Until after the trial you're acquaintances. NOT friends. Acquaintances. Judges get the wrong impression. Morons. Why do I represent morons? Why? Why do I torment myself?" She sputtered her tirade.

A harried Nancy emerged over her left shoulder. She rolled her eyes at Wordy.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, young missy." Hardiff spun on her heel shaking a finger at the astonished and embarrassed Nancy. "We're going to do a last minute review of your testimony, Michelle. Come with me." She strode off. Michelle rose to her feet.

"She summons." She said, following after the stocky woman.

Nancy plopped onto the bench beside him.

"Nice shoes." He smirked.

"Shut up." Nancy scowled down at the boxy black orthopedic-looking shoes. "Just shut the hell up, Kevin."

..

.

_AN: Ditto my excuses for Vacant Sands only my writer's block for this story is 100,000 times worse. The next few chapters are going to be court-room stuff - testimonies and so forth. They're going to be shorter but that's just the way of things. I really hope you enjoy the court drama. It may recap a little of the earlier action - but this story is getting long enough that I think it's probably warranted. _

_Drop me a review and make my day/month/year. Love you guys for sticking through this with me. I know I'm awful at updates, but you guys have been wonderful.  
_


	24. Your Witness

"Mrs. Jameison. Would you please described you relationship with the plaintiff, Michelle Nicholson." Hardiff asked.

Nancy's stomach did a slick and greasy roll as she took in the austere setting on the courtroom. The vast room was chilly, even for a winter's day, and the rain outside dimmed the light in the wood-paneled chamber. The hard wood of the witness chair bit into the backs of her leg as she crossed and uncrossed her legs nervously. She tried to pull it together. She was a character witness. Her testimony was _ important. _It could put Blake behind bars for years. Unless she fucked up.

She swallowed, her throat painfully dry, before opening her mouth to speak.

"We've been best friends since the second grade. She's the godmother of my son Charlie. She's family. When I was going through a rough patch in my teenage years she really kept me straight and good. She was my voice of reason when I didn't have one." Nancy kept it brief and simple, her voice ringing clear in the room. Blake sat behind the defendant's chair, bored expression plastered on his bloated face. His overpriced lawyer keenly leaned in, rapidly jotting down notes. She had to suppress the nasty surge of panic that clumped in her throat.

"And what is your relationship to the defendant." Margaret paced forward a few stries.

"I wish I didn't have one with him. He disgusts me. I put up with him, initially because of Shelley. I thought she loved him. She was getting married to him. So I tried to put those feelings aside, but I just couldn't. After they married he told me I wouldn't be seeing much of her anymore. It wasn't seemly for _his wife _to be seen with such _trash_." She spoke the words with venom. His words rang in her head, clear as the day he'd uttered them.

"Did you know he was abusing her?" Hardiff asked, keen-eyed. Nancy fought the urge to squirm. Keep it simple and clear. That's what Margaret had said.

"Yes. Yes I guess I did know." She admitted.

"Some people might ask why you didn't do something sooner if you knew." Margaret prompted her.

Nancy was prepared for the question. Margaret had told her that she would need to explain why she hadn't taken action before hand since it was so clear that she would have known about the abuse. Just like she'd had to mention her less than stellar juvenile record – to minimize the impact by taking the opportunity to poke and prod and reveal those details about her life away from Blake's attorney.

"My father was an abusive alcoholic. I was constantly afraid I'd come home to a cruiser in front of the house telling me he'd finally killed my mother. He once beat her so badly that she lost consciousness. I didn't know what to do. So I called an ambulance. She was pissed at me. For interfering in something that wasn't my business. Child Services took me and my brother away. I was 12 and he was 5. She was told that if she left him she could have us back but he was too dangerous to be around us. And she chose my father. She let him stay and let us go. I was returned within a couple months because the system is what it is, but my brother stayed in foster care. She still blames me for losing her son. I had a bit of a wild childhood. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of."

"Objection." Blake's lawyer called lazily. "A truly _sad _little story, but relevance?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Get to the point Mrs. Jamieson." The white-haired judge peered down his nose, over the wire rim of his spectacles. His gaze was not altogether unkind.

Nancy rubbed her hands together under the brim of the desk, by way of comforting herself. "I thought you couldn't make decisions for other people. Women won't leave for good – they won't stop going back to the men who hurt them, unless it's their choice. I wanted it to be Shelley's choice. I always told her if she needed help to call me. Anytime, anywhere. I would always be there to help. Always. I wish I had tried harder or sooner. I guess I just didn't really understand what she was going through." She looked over at Michelle sheepishly, mouthing the words "I'm sorry." Shelley shook her head. There wasn't anything to be sorry about. Nothing at all.

Margaret allowed a moment's pause for the judge's contemplation before continuing. "Can you explain to me what happened on the night of September 17th please?"

"Yes, I can. I was making supper. I was angry because Brian, my husband, have forgotten to pick up an onion at the grocery store. I kept thinking: how hard is it to get one lousy onion. And then the phone rings. It was Shelley, but I could barely hear her. She was so … quiet. She said … "I need you to come get me." And I knew. I knew he'd hit her again." Nancy looked at him pointedly. He returned her gaze, eyes dark with hatred and contempt. She could see the muscles in his throat ripple with a low and nearly-silent growl. But he couldn't intimidate her.

"Please continue." Shell's laywer prodded.

Nancy continued. "I don't remember much of the drive. But I remember running up to the front door. It was unlocked so I went straight in. There was blood everywhere. I thought, for sure, he'd killed her. There was just so much blood. ON the walls and the floor. There was broken glass too. I called for her but she didn't answer. I found her in the bathroom. She was … I could barely recognize her. It was beyond words."

Margaret placed an envelope of photos on the judge's desk. "Enter Exhibit A. A photograph taken of Michelle Nicholson upon admittance to Scarborough Hospital-Grace Campus at 7:12, Wednesday September 17th." She announced loudly.

She strode towards the witness chair and placed another photograph, surface up, on the desk. Nancy looked down and grimaced. Shelley's hollow and exhausted face looked back at her, hauntingly from the police photo.

Nancy tore her eyes away from the picture, turning them, instead on the disgusting lump of humanity she vaguely thought of as Blake. He smirked. He goddamned smirked at her. God it pissed her off.

She had to choke back the wave of anger that threatened to swamp her anew, looking at the bruises and scars. "She was scared and weak and in pain. I took her to the hospital. I wasn't sure how bad it was and I didn't know what else to do. She needed four stitches to the forehead and a half-dozen to the cuts on her arms. She also had some bruised ribs and a fractured finger. I couldn't believe it had really happened. I told her she had to tell the police what he'd done and this time she finally agreed. She filed a complaint. She dropped the suit after she went back to him."

Margaret Hardiff nodded sympathetically. "Can you tell me what happened in the incident over thanksgiving?"

"We went to this, uhm, community party thing. The Wordsworths have it every year just before thanksgiving. It's tradition, really. When Shell went back to Blake I was really disappointed. I was so sure that she'd cut him out for good and he wormed his way back in. It pissed me off a little. The party was the first time I'd seen her since she'd gone back to him." Nancy looked to Michelle, gauging her response. Shell couldn't blame her. She was disappointed and ashamed of _herself _for going back to the slimy bastard.

"Mrs. Wordworth sent me to the pantry to get more gingerale. And Shelley was there. Shelley told me she was sorry. And I was mad at her so I told her that I couldn't be her friend and watch what he did to her any longer. I watched my father beat my mother for years. And I wouldn't watch the same thing happen to my friend." Nancy cringed remembering her harsh words

She continued. "Then she told me that he'd stolen her birthcontrol. He … thought it was time to have a baby. She was really scared. She said that she'd made a mistake going back to him. She wanted to leave – I tried to get her to talk to our friend Wordy – he's a cop – immediately, but she wouldn't. But she said the next day, after Blake went to work, she'd call me and we'd go pack up anything essential and she'd never go back. I didn't see her leave the party. I just know when I looked for her again she was gone. And I had this bad feeling. We left pretty shortly. Charlie gets cranky when he's tired so Brian and I went home."

She sucked in a shaky breath, placing a trembling hand on her stomach to try and still the squadron of butterflies completing snow-bird-style maneuvers in her chest. "When we pulled in the driveway I could hear the phone ringing. I just had this empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Brian got to the phone first. He didn't say anything – he just stood there and listened. Then he passed me the phone. I knew it was going to be bad. Detective Marks, the officer who'd handled Shell's first complaint, told me that she was at the hospital with some pretty serious injuries. He said they were checking for internal bleeding. I was her emergency contact so they figured I should know."

"How was Michelle when you saw her?" Margaret asked, striding forward to brace herself against the desk.

"She was hooked up to the IV when I got there. But it was worse than I'd ever seen her. Early on she'd have a small bruise. She'd try to hide it with scarves or cover-up or bangs or long sleeves. But I knew because I'd seen it all before from my mother. But this was different. This was even worse than before. The doctors told me that it was lucky she survived. He'd beaten her so badly. I couldn't understand why he'd hurt her like that. I just don't understand how he could do that to her."

Margaret placed another stack of photos on the judge's desk. The elderly man looked down at them, studying them gravely before glancing back up at Blake.

"How has Michelle been doing lately? In the three months since leaving Blake?" Margaret asked.

Nancy smiled. "She's doing really well. She's really landed on her feet. I didn't expect her to recover so quickly, but she's taking her counseling very seriously. She's started to volunteer at the women's clinic in Summerhill. I went with her once, to one of the sessions. She thought I could use the opportunity to sort out my feelings from my own experiences with my mum and dad. She's really working on getting stronger, emotionally and physically. She's put some of the weight she lost during her marriage back on but she's getting healthy again. She's got a job and she seems to really love it. She works hard, you know? She's staying with me and Brian still – she's safe with us. Charlie loves having her around so much. She has bad days – but they aren't nearly as often or a bad as before. She's really pushing forward. I'm proud of her."

The court room fell into silence. Nancy's eyes brimmed with tears unshed.

"Your witness." Margaret said smugly to the defense.


	25. Rights

_Long time no see. I've been so busy I haven't even had time to read any of the fanfictions post in the last two weeks. I'm in the middle of stupid stupid stupid finals and starting to pack up to move and all. I'm desperately missing flashpoint - does anyone know when it comes back yet? There are going to be two more chapters of trial - I'm never too sure if I'm being too repetitive or whatnot - I figure this story is getting pretty darn long, so it might not be a bad thing to have the trial recap some of the events, but if you guys hate it and stuff I can re-plan and stuff._

_On to the story!_

* * *

The trial marched forward, winding through a list of witnesses to attest to the abuse.

An old neighbour had patiently answered questions about the long arguments, Blake's drunken tyrades, the mornings after the massive fights where Shelley would carefully scuttle around the house, head bowed, hair hanging low over her face to hide the newest bruise. And Barb and Mr. Williams had relayed the events at the diner. Marks lent an air of authority to the procedure with his blunt and technical testimony.

She hated having to be in the same room as Blake. He made her skin crawl and, despite her best efforts, she was still terrified of him. She was afraid and angry and ashamed. She felt simultaneously broiling hot and freezing cold. She hated herself for giving him the power to affect her. Shelley ignored his gaze drilling into her skull, relieved when the judge adjourned the trial for a short lunch break.

Hardiff restacked her papers carefully. "The defense will call their witness next – before your testimony, Michelle. I believe you know her, actually. A Bethany Larson?" She said, piling them into an oversized briefcase.

Shelley groaned.

"What's this?" Wordy asked, approaching the table followed closely by Nancy and her orthopedic shoes. "What's going on?"

Shelley scowled ferociously. "Bethany freaking Larson is testifying on his behalf."

"_Bethany?" _Nancy asked incredulously. "_Bethany Larson? _ What a _bitch_. She barely even knows Blake. How the hell is she supposed to testify for him."

"Play nice now, girls." Margaret Hardiff quipped. "Normally I don't like to leave clients unattended but I'm going to head over the office – Ms. Larson was a last minute addition to the witness list so I didn't have time to check her out yet. My clerk did a bit of background and should have it ready for me by then. I'll be back by one." She warned stiffly before stalking out of the courtroom.

"Don't be late." She called to them.

There was a moment for silence before Shelley murmured, once more. "Beth. Larson."

"Yeah. She used to steal my biology notes in the tenth grade. I was definitely beneath our dear princess Bethany." Wordy reminisced. "Unfortunately your little incident with her on Parade Day seemed to bring attention to the fact that I'm now a cop. I spent the remainder of the afternoon listening to how 'brave' and 'heroic' policemen were. And wouldn't I like to meet her for a drink later? Maybe she could see my, uh, _gun_?" He remembered with disgust.

Nancy snorted and Shelley barked out a laugh. "I can't believed she really used that line." She giggled. Wordy shrugged, rolling his eyes.

"I'm starved." He said, rubbing his growling stomach. "There's a sub place on the corner. I'll treat you guys to the biggest meatball subs you've ever seen. We'll just grab Marks and go."

Nancy beamed. "Best offer we've had all day, Kev."

Shelley nodded. She wasn't at all hungry, but she wouldn't mind escaping the austere courtroom and it's chilly, imposing rooms. "Sure thing. I'm going to use the washroom first. I'll meet you guys in the lobby." She called over her shoulder.

* * *

Like the rest of the courthouse the bathrooms were impressively large and austere. The white and black marble floor carved rich patterns across the floor meeting the maroon wall of stalls in a sharp play of colours. Light streamed into the room from the nearly floor to ceiling stained glass windows.

Shelley looked at herself in the long bank of mirrors above the line of sinks.

She studied herself in its reflection. It had been a long time since she'd really looked at who she was. She was pleased with the way her face was filling back out – the gaunt look had faded into something much prettier and softer. She turned her face, examining it from all angles. No more bruises. There hadn't been for quite some time. Her skin no longer had the tinted tones of past bruises. She shook a hand through her hair. No more bangs either. There was no need. She no longer had anything to hide. She'd lopped off inches of length, cutting it off bluntly to her shoulders. He'd liked her hair long – and even though she'd hated it she'd kept it that way to satisfy him. It had been long and dull and scraggly. Cutting it off it had recovered its bounce, its sheen, its life. Just like her.

She was rebounding and it was growing easier every single day.

She turned the tap off, taking one last glance in the mirror. She looked healthy. And, under the pale sheen of nervousness, she looked happy. At least, happier than she'd been in ages.

"You can do it. You're doing good. So good." She murmured to herself, feeling incredibly foolish.

She turned back to the door freezing dead in her tracks. It was _him_, leaning against the metal door, latch visibly slid shut behind him. She glanced quickly to the row of stalls, praying to god somebody else would emerge. She panicked when she saw nothing but rows of slightly-ajar metal doors. They were utterly alone.

"Blake." Her voice barely hitched on his name. She felt pretty damned proud. "You need to leave. This is the women's bathroom. If you don't turn around right now I'm going to start screaming. A courthouse like this is going to be brimming with cops."

"Sure." He said lazily. "I don't intend to do much. Just thought maybe we should have a chat before we drag this disgusting sham of a trial any further."

"This is serious Blake. The only thing that was a sham was our goddamned marriage." She angrily replied.

He snorted in response, pushing off the door to stalk closer. She fought the urge to scurry back and held her ground.

"You took a vow to cherish me. To protect me. And instead you abandoned me and abused me. You hit me, Blake. More times than I can count. And when I left you went to my goddamned _mother _to try and con me into coming back."

"Hey. You fell for it." He shrugged non-chalantly.

The door handle wiggled, and the sound of pushing and scraping echoed in the washroom. Blake just continued to advance until he was standing mere inches away.

"Yeah. I fell for it. But the second time I didn't. And you came and tracked me down. I told you to stay the hell away from me. You had no business showing up at my work. We're getting a divorce, Blake. Just leave me the hell alone. You're out of my life now. We're done. We're over." She clenched her hands into fists, the nails digging into the flesh of her palms painfully.

Blake's smile was so smug, so malicious that Shelley's spine tingled. "We'll never be done." He said, voice painfully low and controlled. "_Never." _He uttered. He laid a hand over her stomach. "After all. A baby needs his daddy."

Shelley couldn't speak. She could barely breathe. Bethany must have told him about the tests she and Nancy had bought - she hadn't believed they were really Nancy's at all. Oh god.

"A man's got rights, Michelle. Rights to his son." He grinned awfully, rubbing his hand roughly over her stomach. He was doing exactly what she thought he would do – he would try to use any baby they had as a pawn to manipulate her.

"Families should be together. Better that way. Not shuffling him back and forth from houses. They say kids from divorced parents are more likely to commit crimes. And, you know, you may not really be _fit _to raise a child on your own." He added, his voice sickly sweet with false concern.

She reached down pushing his hand away and staggering back.

"You have nothing to be worried about Blake. There is no baby." She said, voice low and shaky.

His face flushed angrily. "You're a LIAR. I _know_ about the pregnancy tests, you little bitch."

The door creaked under a new assault. "Michelle?" She heard Marks' yell. "Are you all right."

She opened her mouth to shout back. Blake lunged, outstretched hand reaching for her throat. She ducked and he fell heavily against the sink. She raced to the door. He caught her by the hair, even has her hand grasped the latch to unlock the door. He yanked painfully. She reared back a fist aiming at his most vulnerable parts. He let go long enough to cup his throbbing balls and sink to the ground.

With surprisingly steady hands she unlatched the door and it swung inwards, leaving her face to face with Detective Marks.

"Christ the bastard is persistent." He said, pushing himself between her and Blake in case he tried something new. But he was far too preoccupied with his injury to notice much.

Shelley, however, was enraged. She felt empowered. The adrenalin from the attack pumped through her body, urging her to act. She ducked under Marks outstretched arms and kicked Blake fiercly in the side. And again and again. Marks hauled her off.

"Enough, tiger. Enough." He panted, trying to hold her back from causing the prone Blake. "I'd like to slug him one too but this is neither the time nor place, darling."

When she had calmed considerably, he let go, depositing her behind him once more. He leaned down to the moaning, Blake examining him.

"You landed a good one, Shell." He noted, reaching into his pocket for cuffs. "'Fraid you just never learn, buddy. Breaking court orders and the restraining order again? Jesus. You really are a dumbass."

"No." Shelley said, laying a hand over Marks before he could snap the cuffs closed on Blakes wrist.

"What?" Marks asked, confused.

"Don't arrest him him. It's just what he wants. To delay this whole process so I can't move on with my life. You collar him there are more charges to add and the trial will be delayed again." She explained wearily.

Marks nodded. Maybe the bastard was smarter than he'd given him credit for. "Fine." He swallowed his desire to follow procedural duty. "Fine. Then let's go. Nancy and Wordy are going to be waiting for us. We delay much longer they'll worry."

"What do we do about him?" Shelley asked, sliding her gaze over the mass lying, quivering, on the floor. Pitiful.

"Leave him." Mark said viciously.

"Okay." Shelley said, running a hand through her hair. "Okay." Marks wrenched open the door angrily, letting it slam against the wall behind it. She gave Blake, lying in the fetal position, one last glance before striding out. "Goodbye Blake." She murmured, snapping the door shut behind them.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Please review. _


	26. Objection Your Honour

By the time court reconvened Shelley was feeling oddly energized – like a runner on the home stretch of a relay race, end clearly within vision, legs pumping furiously as they dash onwards. She watched Bethany Larson flutter and coo as she took the stand. Her long hair was elaborately curled around her face; her makeup was so heavily applied that, even at a distance, it looked trowelled on. Her blouse, a subtle shade of baby pink, was tucked into a skirt just long enough to be considered modest. She looked like a bimbo. Which was utterly fitting, in Shelley's opinion.

Shelley leaned forward, as Blake's lawyer rose to his feet, slowly plodding towards the witness stand. She wanted to know _exactly _what Bethany thought she knew about her marriage.

"How well would you say you know the defendant, Ms. Larson." Blake's lawyer asked, his deep baritone voice was deceptively soothing.

"Oh, well. We've know each other since we were children. We all did. Me and Shelley and Blake. And Nancy too." She eagerly added, drumming her fake nails against the stand in fake anxiousness.

Sure they'd known each other. But not friends, as Bethany seemed to be insinuating. Bethany would never stoop so low as to be friends with people like Shelley or Nancy. The idea was almost laughable to Shelley – she had to stem the violent urge to cackle at the thought of it.

"And how would you describe the defendant, Ms. Larson?" Blake's lawyer prompted.

"He's a really great guy. He was always a real sweetheart. I can't imagine him doing any of the things they've said. I feel so bad for him." She bit her lip and looked sideways to Shelley, as if she were afraid to say more – like she didn't want to break a friend's confidence. Conniving little devil was playing the courtroom. It was truly a shame she didn't finish her degree in drama because she was a very convincing actress.

"And?" The lawyer urged.

"I hate to speak badly of anyone." She prefaced, turning pleadingly to the judge. "I really do. But Michelle … she's just a little off."

Shelley clenched her jaw angrily.

"She was always a little unstable when I knew her in school. Very clingy. And needy and manipulative. She was insanely jealous whenever Blake would spend time with anyone else – it didn't matter who it was. I know it's not her fault. Her mother used to abandon her as kids and she figured he'd leave too. But she was just _so _controlling." She bottom lip quivered as she spoke, eyes moist and glistening in the soft lighting of the court room.

She tried to exhale slowly, something she'd always done to calm herself, but she found her breath was ragged. She'd be anything _but _controlling. She'd let everything go to appease Blake. And she'd narrowly escaped. The only way she could be free and start a new life is if Blake was put him bars. He'd never leave her alone – and she knew it. He'd keep coming after her. In his mind, she would forever be his property. Now Bethany was destroying that chance. Over what? A petty schoolyard rivalry? It didn't make any sense.

At the witness stand Bethany hurriedly continued: "I heard they got married. Of course, I wasn't invited to the wedding. Shelley made sure none of Blake's friends could come. She didn't want us there." Bethany shrugged, her shoulders heaving slightly as she gave a breathy and pained sigh.

"Almost right after the wedding she quit her job and refused to get another one. He had to bust his but just to provide for her. He really wanted children, too, and she refused to even talk about it. I know he would have been a really great father." She beamed around the room. "He always had a way with children."

Shelley forced herself to unclench her jaw, forced herself to relax, letting her tensed shoulders fall. She couldn't let her anger show. She carefully wiped the expression of her face, and stared, hard, at a point on the wall. Two rows behind her Wordy stamped his foot furiously, fingers clenched tightly within his trouser pockets. He abruptly brought up a hand to scratch across his closely buzzed head. He couldn't help but think, bitterly, that Bethany's acting lessons had certainly come in handy. She may not have made it all the way to Broadway like she'd planned, but she was putting in an admirable performance. He couldn't tell from the judge's face whether he believed it or not.

Hardiff was carefully jotting down notes in her leather notebook. To the average eye she looked calm and collected. But her furrowed brow and the clean precision with which she dotted her 'i's and crossed her 't's betrayed a woman attempting to keep her cool.

"And worst of all," Bethany continued. "She cheated on him. She broke their marriage vows."

Shelley's world went reeling, attention snapped. Her breath tore out of her. She felt like she'd been plunged, face first, into a blizzard. Her determination not to allow Bethany's testimony get to her forgotten, she stared on transfixed.

"I know she and officer Wordsworth were pretty hot and heavy in highschool before she hooked up with Blake. And I thought that was it. But this summer I was driving past the Thunderbird Motel on Highway 3 – just outside of L'Amoreaux. It was August 13th. I remember because it's the day before my sister's birthday and I was driving into the city because I had to pick up her present still. I think it was just past noon."

Wordy felt his jaw slacken and drop open slightly. He quickly snapped it shut. Beside him Nancy paled. He gripped her hand – hard. Until his knuckles whitened. Sure – he knew it had been painfully obvious to many of his classmates that he'd harbored a crush on Shell, but he'd never touched her in that way. He'd always been painfully shy about his feelings about her. It made his stomach churn to hear Bethany talk about them that way. She was twisting everything around – taking something as simple and innocent as a childhood crush and making it dirty and vile. It made him feel vulnerable which, in turn, just made him more angry.

"Anyway, the hotel, well, it's at the lights and, my goodness, this had to be the longest red light in the history of traffic lights. And I look over and see Shell's car in the parking lot third from the end. I thought to myself that's weird because I know she doesn't work and it's only minutes away from their home so why wouldn't they just stay there? And _just _then I see them come out of the room. Shelley and Kevin. Her hair was all disheveled. She kissed him too. Not just a little friendly peck either. It was really intense. Then the light changed and I sped off. But when I heard that Shelley was claiming that Blake hit her I knew I had to come forward." Bethany looked down, fiddling with her fingers as if emotionally torn, tears glazing her cornflower blue eyes.

"And why is that, Ms Larson?" Blake's lawyer asked, eyes flashing, victory in sight.

She looked up suddenly, a tear streaking down her lovely face. "She's the one that broke her vows – not him. I think it's pretty obvious she's just saying he hit her so that she can take more in the divorce. She's decided to run off with Kevin. If Blake goes to prison for these crazy charges she'll get everything. He's got friends in the police department that will say anything, really, to support a brother in arms. It's just not fair that he's getting blamed for everything ." She said angrily. "It's just not _fair_." She repeated miserably.

"The night that Blake was arrested for assaulting Shelley they were at the Wordsworth's Thanksgiving party. Of course the poor dear had no idea his wife was having an affair with their son. Blake said he came across them cuddling and whispering – when he got angry Shelley demanded they go home. Not even an hour later Kevin's busting in their front door claiming Blake beating his wife. He tried to surrender and explain the situation but Kevin just kept punching him. He nearly beat him to death. She planned the whole thing. To have her lover arrest her husband." She leaned in as she said the last part, dropping her voice to almost a whisper so that the entire room had the lean forward just to catch her words.

"Objection Your Honour." Hardiff rocketed to her feet. "This is entirely conjecture." She spat venomously.

"Goes to the character of the plaintiff, Your Honour." Blake's lawyer retorted.

"Sustained." The judge slammed the hammer against the desk. "Let the witness's statement be struck from the record."

But the damage was done. Bethany looked between the two lawyers with false embarrassment and bewilderment as the courtroom erupted in whispers. Inside, she basked in the glory of her own victory, finally having triumphed over the bloody two-shoes Shelley and her skanky whore Nancy. She grinned, almost maniacally, as her cold eyes latched onto Nancy's horrified ones.

"A five minute recess." The judge ordered, pounding his gavel against the wooden desk.

* * *

Thanks for all the wonderful, stunning reviews - just want you guys to know I cherish each of them deeply. My readers are wonderful. Thanks for your support and words. Kay. Peace until next time (might not be terribly soon - I move on the 1st of May and have a crazy ton of packing to do before then).


	27. Not Even You

Hardiff stormed into the nearest office, scowling at its occupants – a mid-fifties man sporting a set of thick-rimmed glasses and a slightly-younger Indian man dress in an impressive designer suit.

"OUT!" She bellowed. They needed no further encouragement, scrambling to collect their belongings. The bespectacled man dripped coffee on his maroon tie in his efforts to evacuation the room with all haste.

"You." She point at the pale Shelley. "Sit down before you fall down." Shell wordlessly sank into one of the empty leather chairs around the round wooden table.

"I have no idea what happened in there." Shelley muttered. "What the hell happened in there?" Nancy rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing down. Marks gave her a sympathetic look from his position at the door. Her soon-to-be-ex husband sure was a manipulative son of a bitch. Corners her in the bathroom and when she won't give him what he wants, sets his little guard dog after her.

"She perjured herself." Wordy said slowly, each word enunciated clearly. He was just barely managing to contain his anger, struggling to keep a firm and icy grip over the slippery edge of his temper.

"So you are telling me that you and my client did NOT engage in sexual relations at the Thunderbird Motel on August 13th of this year?" Hardiff asked, thumping a fist against her now closed notebook.

"We've never had…" Shelley trailed off when her eyes met Wordy's over the table. They were stone cold. "I've never been with anyone but Blake." She quietly said, averting her eyes so she wouldn't have to see the wave of emotions flicker across his face.

Hardiff paused, taking a moment to consider. She carefully studied both Wordy, stony and grave, and Shelley, ashen and shocked.

"Okay. Well. We just need the judge to believe that." Hardiff sighed.

"Put me on the stand." Wordy strode forward, leaning across the table so he was eye to eye with Hardiff.

"I can't do that unless you've got a solid reason why your little romance never happened. Because the evidence is pretty damning, all things considered. You were on the scene at the first arrest, you were the one he filed excessive force complaints against, you arrested him the second time, you were the one who arranged for her therapy and for her lawyer." Hardiff huffed, straightening her lapels.

"August 11th through 13th I was in Ottawa doing combat training. A jiu jitsu dan grading. From eight in the morning until eight at night I was under the constant supervision of at least sixty other people. There is absolutely no way I could have snuck out for six hours to drive to Toronto and back for a noon rendezvous with Shelley. I've got credit card receipts for my hotel room, a second-degree black belt and room full of eyewitnesses to uphold my story." Wordy proclaimed, eyes gleaming.

Hardiff pushed back in her chair, eyes narrowing, like a cat who had just cornered its prey. "_Really."_

"Yes. Really." Wordy answered. "Put me on, Hardiff. And I'll blow her story out of the water."

"Done." Hardiff gleefully rubbed her hands together. She was going to decimate the opposition in this case. Blake's lawyer thought they could worm out of charges by making her client look like a slut through some half-assed testimony? She'd level them. Did they even _know _who they were dealing with?

"I've got to make some calls." Hardiff abruptly pushed away from the table. "Start writing down names – I don't care if they were kicking your ass, your waitress, the bartender or your freaking bellhop, I want their names." She bustled out of the room, shoulders drawn like a soldier heading off to battle.

After a moment's pause Nancy looked at Marks. "I'm think I'm going to go find Bethany and flush her head in the nearest toilet. Care to join?" She grinned winningly.

"As a member of the Toronto Police force I cannot participate in any assaults upon Mrs. Larson's person." He responded slowly and solemly. "So I suppose I'll have to settle for watching."

"Excellent." Nancy responded, happily looping an arm through his leaving Wordy and Shelley alone in the room.

They sat in awed silence for a moment. Wordy struggled to find something – anything – to fill the hollowed walls of the chamber. The silence was widening, like a crevasse before him.

"Beth's a bitch." He said, kicking back in the chair across from Shelley. He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankle casually.

Shelley didn't respond immediately. Tears burned her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd wanted to cry like this. She held them back, behind trembling lashes, and studied her long, scarred fingers. She flexed them against the strange tingling sensation that radiated down them. She felt hollow.

"I'm so sorry Wordy." She heard herself say.

"No. No Shelley. Don't apologize. I hate it when you do that." He pushed away from the table, folding his arms across his broad chest.

Shelley bit back the apology, already forming on her tongue.

"She could get you fired. Her accusations that you faked a claim to help me because …" _You're my lover – _she finished in her head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame. "She could get you and Marks kicked off the force. I know how much you love your job. And helping me has put it at risk. So I am sorry. Even if you don't want to hear it." Shelley said.

"Once Hardiff's done with her the judge isn't going to believe she was telling the truth about her own goddamned name, Shell. I'm not sorry I helped you. I'm not going to cower in fear because some jealous bitch wants to take you down and I'm caught in her crosshairs. I'm not. I do love my job and I'd say I'm pretty good at it. Bethany freaking Larson isn't going to change that." Wordy grinned at her crookedly. Shelley's heart, her racing, pounding heart, slowed to a crawl.

She rose to her surprisingly steady feet and moved around the table to plant a kiss on his cheek. "You're a good man, Wordy."

He fought the urge to bring a hand up to touch the place her warm lips had just brushed.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He muttered. "Just don't tell anyone. It's not great for this bad-cop reputation I'm nurturing, what, beating innocent civilians and bagging their wives and all."

The sound of her laughter was music to his ears.

When court reconvened, Hardiff paced in front of the witness stand. Bethany, for the first time, appeared genuinely nervous, hands fluttering up to fluff her bleached hair.

"According to your statements you saw my client, Ms. Michelle Nicholson, coming out of the Thunderbird Motel at approximately noon on August 13th. Is that correct?" Hardiff asked slowly.

"Yes. Yes it is." Bethany responded, leaning forward, eyes misty behind a thick curtain of mascara. "As I was saying, I just felt so bad poor Bl--."

"You're positive it was August 13th?" Hardiff asked, interrupting her.

"Yes of course. I already told you. It was the day before my sister's birthday." Bethany huffed, annoyed at being cut off in the monologue she'd prepared.

"And you're positive it was my client and Officer Wordsworth." Hardiff asked.

"Of course. I've know them for years. It was him." Bethany scoffed and gestured a hand in Wordy's direction.

"It couldn't have been anyone else?" Hardiff prompted, pacing back again.

"Objection your honour." Blake's lawyer called. "This is badgering. We've already established her testimony ."

"Just clarifying." Hardiff spun on her heel to defend herself against the judge.

"I'll allow it, but, please Mrs. Hardiff, get to the point." The Judge replied.

"No it couldn't have been anyone else. It was definitely Shelley and Wordy." Bethany's voice betrayed her annoyance when she answered. It took on the nasal tones Shelley remembered well from school – the slight sqawk that Bethany had carefully trained herself to avoid.

"Do you know what a _nidan _is, Bethany?" Hardiff asked, taking her position back behind the plaintiff's desk

"No." Bethany stuttered, her features pinched in confusion.

Hardiff spread her hands on the desk leaning forward as she spoke. "It's a black belt – a second degree black belt to more precise."

"Objection. Relevance?" Blake's lawyer called from his side of the court room.

"I just thought that Mrs. Larson should know why her testimony of my client's cheating is going to be thrown out." Hardiff said breezily, smiling as she flicked a hand casually towards Bethany.

"What?" Bethany squeaked from the witness stand, her sentiments parroted by Blake's deep-voiced lawyer.

"On August 13th of this year Officer Wordsworth, whom Mrs. Larson alleges was engaging in an affair with my client, was in Ottawa at a Dan grading." Hardiff's smug was grim and knowing, growing as she spoke, her voice deadly calm and eerily controlled. "He was in the company of nearly sixty other individuals, several of whom are law enforcement, as he earned his _nidan. _He could not have _possibly _been at the Thunderbird Motel at noon because he was in an all day examination on the other side of the province."

"Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was somebody else." Bethany scrambled to answer. The Judge looked over, propping his head on his crooked elbow, brow furrowed with interest.

"Yet you positively identified Officer Wordsworth as her lover. You said you were certain it was him – it couldn't be anybody else." Hardiff read her testimony from her meticulous notebook.

"I … I must have been wrong." Bethany's eyes desperately darted around the court room.

"You never saw my client on August 13th. Let alone with another man at a motel." Hardiff's voice had a killer edge, as she honed in for the kill.

"I did!" Bethany insisted desperately.

"No. No, Bethany, you didn't." Hardiff shot back.

"She's a bitch! She deserved it." Bethany shouted, her voice only decibles short of a screech. She furiously pounded a white-clenched fist against the wood of the witness stand. She shot to her feet, chest heaving in rage. "She's a whore and a bitch. She ruined my life. She deserved it. She deserved it all." She trailed off into a weak sob, collapsing back into the chair, crossing her arms and laying her head down on the table as she wept. "She deserved it." She whimpered.

Hardiff looked at Bethany, huddled miserably behind the witness stand, shoulders heaving with her sobs. Voice tinged with pity and disgust. "Nobody deserves to be abused. Nobody deserves to live every moment of their life in fear of the next blow, wondering what will set him or her off this time. Nobody deserves that. Not even you, Mrs. Larson."


	28. Close to Home

"How long have you known my client, Michelle." Hardiff asked. In his brief yesterday she'd instructed him to sound official, use police terms, refer back to Blake's abuse frequently and, for the love of Jesus, don't call her Shelley in front of the judge. Because Hardiff didn't want to bring any emphasis to their history and friendship. That would look very bad indeed. But as the defense had already shoved that to the spotlight Wordy figured, what the hell, he'd try to shape it to his advantage.

"It's, uh, been a long time." Wordy remembered the day he'd met her.

_ The sweet smell of autumn air filled his nostrils. He dodged through the playground, past the rows of swings and teeter totters, through the maze like jungle gym and past the older kids playing a rowdy game of basketball. He swerved through the crowd of kids in brightly coloured jumpers playing tag; he had his eyes set on one thing – the sand pit. It was at the end of the yard furthest from the school, just over the grassy knoll. And it was his favourite _

_ He plunked down, his stiff new jeans crinkling at the knees as he knelt in the damp earth. He slowly molded the grains of sand into walls and moats, creating an elaborate maze. He imagined knights and kings riding through the gates, back from adventures fighting dragons and _maybe _saving a princess._

_ His small hands shaped and reshaped a turret. He imagined it the central tower, spiring upwards from the heart of the castle. He could envision the queen sitting by the window in the tallest room, pondering her kingdom below her. She would have long golden blonde hair flowing, like honey, into a rope-like braid. Her eyes would be green, like the lush grass beneath his feet. It crumbled beneath his pressing fingers, falling to rubble between his hands._

_ Small, white hands covered his own. He looked up. And his heart stopped._

_ It was his princess. His queen. The girl with long blonde hair and emerald eyes._

_ "You should make the bottom bigger. A tower needs a good base." She said. Pressing the mound with both their hands. She slowly slid them upwards, tapering the tower until it came to a sharp peak. Together they pressed and twisted and, amazingly, the grey-brown turret held._

_ "I'm Shell." She said, her grin was wide and toothy._

_ And his heart tumbled into love._

"It's been a really long time." He said again. "We fell out of touch after high school. I went to university for a year, and then switched out into the police academy. She stayed in L'Amoreux and got married." He wished, and not for the first time, that he'd gotten there first. That she had loved him instead.

"And at any point was your relationship ever anything more than platonic?"

"Absolutely not." He responded, earnestly. Not that he hadn't spent a significant portion of his teenage years wishing otherwise.

"You were one of the responders to the call made to the Nicholson House on Thanksgiving of this year, correct?"

"Yes. My partner picked me up from my parents Thanksgiving event. It's a little insane, but my mother loves the holiday. She invites half the neighbourhood. Anyway, Marks was coming in just as Michelle and Blake were leaving. Blake was getting really angry and hostile. Michelle managed to calm him down and they left. Marks and I headed into the station when the dispatched paged us. The force gets a lot of calls on holidays. There were several reports of a serious domestic in the area and the nearest cruiser was fifteen minutes away, minimum. We weren't on duty yet but we took the call. Marks remember the address from the dropped domestic Michelle had filed a few weeks earlier. And the pieces finally fit together for me."

"What pieces."

"Things like … why she'd cancel on Nancy last minute claiming a headache. Why she'd keep her sunglasses on indoors and angle her face so you only saw one side. Why she wore long-sleeved tee-shirts in forty degree weather. Why she'd flinch if you ever grazed up against her. Why she'd be a little jumpy around loud noises or fast movements. Why she look so damn tired and scared all the time."

"What happened when you reached the house."

"We'd only pulled in the driveway and I could hear this sick crunch. I could tell it was a body hitting something solid. I've been on the job long enough to know what that sounds like. It just had this dull thud. I – we – could hear class breaking inside too, and Shelley screaming. Marks and I rushed the door, weapons drawn. I remember hitting the door hard with my shoulder and it just gave like paper."

"What did you see inside?"

"It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the light. He'd ripped the light off the wall – I couldn't see anything at all. Then I could see her. Shell was lying on the floor amid this pool of broken glass. She was crawling on hands and knees, scrambling to get away. Her dress was covered in blood – it looked like he had tried to rip it off her. It was torn at the bottom and it gaped open. Her face was already swelling and I could see the bruises on her legs where he'd tried to force them open."

"Blake had collapsed back against the wall. But before I could do anything he was lunging forward, grabbing at Michelle. He tried to pull her back to him. She was being dragged across the glass. I jumped in to help her. He resisted and I punched him. He wasn't letting her go. He wouldn't let her go. So I used forced. Marks restrained him and read him his rights while I tried to deal with Shelley. She was in shock – she was bleeding. I took her outside to wait for the ambulance. She was ….she was mess. She couldn't even stand. I had to carry her out. Her blood was all over my hands. I remember that. I don't know how it got there. I think I tried to stop the bleeding. It happened so quickly. One minute we were busting the door in, the next it's all over."

He still remembered, afterwards, trying to wash that blood off his hands. Looking down his arms and seeing them stained with her blood. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed at the rusty splotches, watching as they dripped back into the porcelain sinks in the hospital bathroom, washing away under the scalding water.

"I'm glad we got there when we did. He wouldn't have stopped. He'd have raped her. And, the way things were going, he probably would have killed her. It was one of the worst domestic calls I've seen yet."

"Tell us about the second incident – at the diner."

"Blake tried to approach Michelle at her diner, breaking his restraining order. When we got there he had tried to attack her and she scalded him with water. We gave chase and ended up in an alley between Brooker and Johnson. I could see what we thought might be a gun, hitched under his belt, tucked into his pants. We were far enough away that he could probably get a shot off. I was afraid for my partner and myself. Recognizing and assessing the threat, I tried to provoke him."

"Through what means?" Hardiff inquired.

"I … lead him to believe I was having an affair with his wife." Wordy glanced down sheepishly.

"He believed you?"

"Yes. I told him about a birthmark she has. It's on her upper thigh. I'd seen it when I was waiting for the ambulance after he'd attacked her at Thanksgiving – I was trying to help her pull the dress back over her. He'd torn her dress when he was trying to rape her." He said coldly.

"When I described it to him, he went crazy and charged. From there it was easy to dispose of him. I realize it wasn't very respectful and it certainly wasn't truthful but I wanted to prevent him from harming either my partner or myself. He was armed and we considered him dangerous. Getting him to try to attack me with his hands was our best option. He's less likely to harm either of us with his brute anger than the pistol we found on him during the arrest. Marks and I are trained in close combat fighting. It was the safest choice for everyone."

"You've been a police officer for, what, nearly four years now?"

"Yes. Roughly." He responded.

"Did this case affect you differently than any of your other domestic cases?" Hardiff asked, leaning in slightly, voice sympathetic.

Wordy leaned back, fighting the instinct to cross his arms against the invasiveness of the question. He had to choose his words wisely. "I wish I could say that it didn't . I know they're going to try and twist this and make it seem like something it's not. But it _is_ different when you know the person. I know Shelley. I've known her since we were children. I know what a good person she is. Underneath everything she's kind and loving and smart. And knowing that makes a difference."

"It's harder when it hits close to home. You wonder why they didn't come to you. Why they didn't trust you. Why you weren't smart enough to notice. You feel powerless. You wonder about a lot of things. So, yeah, it was tough and, yeah, it was harder."

Shelley's stomach sank. She hadn't thought of how staying had affected the people around her. She'd never considered how Wordy had felt. She'd never thought that her silence would translate to mistrust to Wordy. She hated that she'd hurt one of the best people she'd ever know. She wished now, more than ever, that she'd told him that first day she'd seen him, standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.

He took a deep breath. "But that doesn't mean I broke procedure or protocol. I always stayed within the boundaries of my duties as a officer of this city. It was no more than I would do for any other woman in her situation." It was true – he'd have done the same for any other victim. He may have gone the extra mile because it was Shell, but domestics struck a special chord within Wordy. He was only fudging the truth a little.

As Hardiff dismissed him – Blake's increasingly defeated looking lawyer had declined the opportunity to cross examin – he looked to Shelley. She met his eyes for only a second before hers flitted back to attention, staring straight in front of her. She wouldn't meet his gaze again and his heart, already a little battered, sank a fraction lower.

..................................................................................................................................................................

Hey guys - this chapter's been kicking around on my computer. I've been fidgeting with it and toying. I considered asking somebody to beta it for me because I just felt like something was wrong. I think I wanted Wordy's testimony to be really powerful but I think I kind of just realized. It can't be this romantic vision of a white knight that I wanted it to be. Because otherwise it'll be too apparent that he does love Shelley. And that's probably not what the judge wants to see. He's kind of torn because he still has a job to do. And putting it all out there in court wouldn't be protecting Shelley either. He's just trying to get Blake behind bars. And that means locking away those feelings a little longer.

Anyway. I decided to bite the bullet and post it. My housemate is leaving for her internship tomorrow meaning I'll be all alone in our house. We've just been hanging out the last few days, which is my reason for no new posts. It'll be the longest we've been apart since first year D:

Hope you guys enjoyed, stay tuned for the next chapter which will be the LAST court chapter. Sorry about that. Court dragged on far longer than I thought it would. Oooops. I just realized this story is nearly 30 chapters long! Jimminy Crickets!


	29. Freedom Rings

"When did you and Blake start dating."

"I had just turned sixteen. He was nineteen and a senior. We went to the same schools growing up, but he was a couple years older so we never really hung out in the same crowds. We ended up at the fall fair at the same time. His best friend was dating my best friend so we all hung out that afternoon. He, uhm, he won me a stuffed Monkey. We named it Bert. He was so sweet. He told me I was beautiful. Nobody had ever told me that before." Her smile was sad as she remembered how happy she'd been that day – how hopeful. That fluttering in the pit of her stomach when he looked at her with those big brown eyes. She thought she'd found somebody she could fall in love with. Somebody who noticed her. How could she have been so pathetic? She tried to shrug it off.

"How was your relationship before you got married?" Hardiff asked, pacing forward.

"It was a rollercoaster." She responded slowly. "At first I liked being with him – we spent almost all our time together. Nobody had ever been interested in me before. He always wanted to know where I was, what I was doing, who I was doing it with. He'd get really angry if I was ever with anybody else – he said spending time with other people was a waste. He'd get furious if I even talked to another boy. My mother's relationships have been terrible – I never known a good, healthy relationship. So I thought his jealousy was love. It seemed romantic at the time. I thought that it was his way of showing he cared about me. I guess I was naïve." She chewed her lip slightly.

"Did he ever hit you before you were married?" Hardiff queried.

"Just once. We went to a party. And he got drunk but he still wanted to drive home. I tried to take the keys – I was going to drive us back. He was slurring and stumbled and I was scared.. And he backhanded me. I remember being shocked. I was angry and confused. I didn't understand why he'd done it." Blake cocked and eyebrow at her, eyes leveling meeting hers across the chilly courtroom. Shell re-crossed her legs under the witness stand, trying to suppress her anger. What she should have done was run far, far away. After pushing him in front of a train maybe. Or at least kicking him one in the family jewels.

She took a short breath and continued. "In the morning he came to my house with a dozen roses and apologized. He blamed it on the alcohol and promised it would never happen again. He cried. And I forgave him."

"How did your life change after you were married, Michelle?" Hardiff addressed her.

"He became even more controlling. He demanded I quit my job to take care of him. And, because he was so persistent, I did. He sold my car. He didn't even ask me. He just sold it. He told me I didn't need it. I was totally reliant on him. For everything. Most of my friends stopped coming around altogether. I guess we cut them out – he was rude to them or he'd tell me he didn't want me seeing them. Eventually I didn't have almost anybody left. Only Nancy. That's what he wanted, though. He wanted me to have only him. It made him feel powerful, I think." She glanced over at the judge, unsure of herself.

When he nodded she continued. "About two months into our marriage he started to hit me again. And this time he didn't apologize. He came home from work, just after I did. I didn't have supper on the table for him. And he was furious. He was yelling, backing me up until I was in the corner and I had nowhere to go. Then he wrapped his hands around my throat and choked me. I couldn't breathe – I was scratching at his hands to get him to let go. And finally he did. He stormed out and didn't come home until four in the morning. The next morning he told me, really, it had been my fault. He'd had a long day. He didn't ask a lot from me. But a good, loving wife should take care of her husband and put supper on the table. So I quit my job. "

Rubbing her lip together anxiously she carried on. "The beatings became more frequent. They went from months apart to weeks and then just days. It would be over little things – like if I left the car's tank almost empty or if the electricity bill was too high. Sometimes he'd hit me for no reason at all."

It was hard for Wordy to listen. Every little detail ripped at him a little. How could he not have seen. He glared at the back of Blake's head, wishing he could handle things his own way. He was a good cop – he believed in the rules and upheld them. But there were certain times when he just wanted to chuck them to the wind and throw a bastard off a really tall building. Blake should consider himself lucky, Wordy thought, that the badge prevented him from doing so.

"He'd hit or kick of slap. He just … felt like it. On our first anniversary he went to a strip club. I was so angry at him. It was our anniversary and he'd gone to look at half-naked women? I felt humiliated. When he got home I yelled at him. I told him he was selfish. He punched me. I blacked out. When I came to he took me to the hospital and told them I fell down the stairs. I had three broken ribs and a concussion."

"According to hospital records you were admitted to the ER at least six times over the following three years with a dislocated shoulder, severe lacerations from broken glass, a broken wrist, twice with broken ribs and once for severe trauma to the face."

"Yes. That's right." She couldn't bear to look at anyone else. So she looked down to her hands, clenching each other tightly on the witness stand.

"Yet, after you left him the first time, you went back to him." Hardiff struck pre-emptively, stealing the wind from the defense's sails. Beat them with their own baseball bat, so to speak.

"Yes. I did. It doesn't even make sense to me now. But I'd lived like that for so long that it made sense. He always told me that I wouldn't be able to live without him. And I started to believe it. I was so dependent on him. I couldn't make decisions on my own. I always needed his input. After I left him, each little choice just seemed monumental. Even picking out laundry detergent was a chore. I'd stand in the aisle and debate and waffle until I told myself – it doesn't matter. It's just soap for Christ's sake." Shelly shook her head in disgust.

"I realized, almost immediately, that going back to Blake was a mistake. I just didn't know how to leave. I wanted to. I told Nancy when I saw her at the Thanksgiving party. She was going to come over in the morning after Blake left for work and we were going to pack a suitcase and leave."

She steeled herself. She hated this memory. The way it vised around her, the way it made her blood run cold in her veins. "But that night he went crazy. I've never seen him so angry before. He slammed me into a wall and, when I fell, he started kicking me over and over. I begged him to stop. But he was in this blind rage. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up. He was screaming but I couldn't understand what he was saying. Then..."

"Go on." Hardiff prompted maternally.

Shelley couldn't help the tears. They threatened to spill over. She tried, desperately, to blink them back. "He … he reached up my dress. When I tried to push him off he slammed my head against the floor and ripped it open. I was terrified – I didn't want him to touch me. He kept saying "Is that how you like it, dirty whore?" He kept saying he needed to punish me. He said he'd been too soft on me. He had to treat me like a real man treats his wife. I think I was crying – I begged him to stop. But he wouldn't. I knew he was going to rape me. I managed to get a hand free and I scratched him. I was desperate. I went for the eyes. He rolled away, howling and I tried to crawl for the door. But it was like my legs weren't working." She angrily swept aside the fallen tear that trekked down her cheek.

Behind the defense desk Blake's body was tense with rage, each muscle straining with the immense effort to control his anger.

"Then the detectives broke the door in and then Blake lunged forward, grabbed me by the ankle and starting pulling me back. I screamed. Then, suddenly his hand was gone. I don't remember what happened next. The doctors said it was might have been from the concussion or shock. I just remember being on the front lawn waiting for the paramedics to come." She purposely omitted her memory, sitting on the ground, feeling the grass tickle against her bare legs as she clung to Wordy. She omitted the way he rocked her, trying to keep her calm. The way she buried her face in his chest.

"I thought he was going to kill me. Sometimes I can just feel his hands wrapping around my throat, pressing, squeezing. Not even just in my sleep. I'll be doing the dishes or walking to the bus stop. And I just feel his hands. And see his eyes." She shuddered visibly. "I thought it was all over. They arrested him. I got a restraining order. I did everything Detective Marks told me to do. I started attending counseling session at Woodlawn. It's a facility for battered women. But he still came back."

Shelley slowly tucked a piece of fallen hair back from her ear. "I thought I could put it behind me. I filed for divorce and three days after the paper were sent he saunters into the diner where I work, wanting to talk. I told him I didn't think we had anything to talk about. He was breaking his parole and violating the restraining order. I told him to leave. He wouldn't. He got really angry when I wouldn't just do what he wanted. He tried to grab me. I threw the pot of boiling water at him. When he heard the sirens he ran."

The judge nodded succinctly. She took a breath, preparing to launch into the next part of her plan – something she hadn't discussed with Hardiff. She glanced over at the barely-constrained Blake, wondering how much it would take to teeter him over the edge.

"I think I loved the idea of Blake more than the reality. I wanted out of my mother's house and I convinced myself it was love. So that I could get married to him and escape that misery. The attention was … flattering." She paused, ever so slightly. Blake's eye's narrowed at the subtle insult. "I guess I just didn't know what love was really about. That doesn't excuse what he did to me. But I'm glad that Blake wasn't my one true love. He was just the man I was dumb enough to marry." Her smile was sad, purposely sliding away from Blake over to Wordy at the mention of _true love._

When Blake rocketed to his feet.

_Bingo. _ Shelley thought, somewhat viciously.

"You love me, you stupid bitch. You stupid, ungrateful bitch!" He screamed, jumping forward. "I'm your husband, you whore. Don't pretend you didn't love me."

Wordy had already hopped over the courtroom benches, launching himself forward to stop Blake from reaching the witness desk. But the court deputies had already locked him into their firm grips and were struggling to hold him in place. He and Marks exchanged telling glances over Blake's massive form, shaking with anger, as he tried to dislodge the pair of bailiffs.

Wordy would pay for the opportunity to give Blake a loving going-away right hook to the face. So he stood at the ready in case Blake managed to get the better of the pair of uniforms.

"I'm all you've got! I'm all you'll ever have. I'll kill you before I let anyone else have you." Blake hissed as the men pinned him to the ground.

The judge leaned back, eyes widening with shock and outrage.

Shelley glanced at him directly. "He's not going to stop. I won't be safe from him unless he's behind bars. He'll keep coming after me. He won't stop until I'm dead." Her voice was low and even as she met his icy eyes over the desk. She didn't so much as glance in Blake's direction, even when he managed to dislodge one of the uniforms, sending him crashing into the solid desk.

"Object: conjecture, your honour." Blake's lawyer argued. But Shelley could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He knew he was standing on a sinking vessel. He was like a rat, itching to abandon ship.

The judge rubbed his chin absently. "I think I've heard everything I need to hear. I'm going to my office to deliberate after which I will present my ruling."

"I think I need some air." Shelley said lightly as Nancy hooked an arm through hers. She glanced over her shoulder back into the courtroom where Blake was having restraints slipped over his wrists and ankles. Wordy and Marks stood over him, grim faced.

"I'll come with." Nancy jumped to offer.

"No it's okay. I just need to be alone a minute." She smiled at her.

"Okay." Nancy said. She pulled Shell in for a hug, gripping her tight. "I just want you to know I'm proud of you baby." She whispered against her ear.

"Thanks. Me too." Shelley grinned.

"Where's she going?" Wordy asked, coming up behind Nancy. She followed his gaze to the front doors where Shelley's blonde head slipped out the entrance way into the chilly afternoon.

"Just needs some space I guess. Big day for her." Nancy ran a tongue over her teeth. She wasn't sure where to stand on the issue of Wordy and Shell. But, by Christ, the pair of them moved slower than molasses in February. Sometimes she just wanted to beat their heads together. At this rate they'd be in the nursing home before they so much as held hands.

"You should go after her. See if she's okay." Nancy cocked her head in that direction. Wordy frowned.

"You think so?"

"Yeah, sure. Go get 'em Tiger." Nancy slapped a hand on his back, urging him forward.

...

...

It took Shelley all of her energy to maintain the calm, collected façade. She'd had to restrain herself from running, taking careful, measured steps across the expansive marble floors until she'd hit the front door and that cool burst of air. She'd stared him straight in the face - seen those burning eyes as he threatened to kill her. It frustrated her that it still had an effect on her. It still made her want to soothe and cower in fear.

She paced a few eager steps away from the door – into the icy streams of winter air. It was freshing, after the stagnant air inside the courtroom. People were hustling by, eager to escape the cold, and the sound was kind of numbing. She plopped down on the steps, burying her face in her hands.

She was tired. So tired. She could only hope it had been enough. If he was behind bars she was safe. It was as simple as that. If it wasn't – well, at least she'd done her best. Damn it. It just wasn't fair, she thought. She struggled against the wall oftears, suppressing the urge to cry. He couldn't make her do it again. She was _done _crying over Blake.

She heard hesitant footsteps and knew, instantly, who it was. She hurriedly wiped the angry, hot tears from her face.

"Hey." She said, not daring to look up.

"Hey." He responded, settling in beside her, back pressed up against the column behind them. "Cold out here." He said casually, stripping off his overcoat and draping it over Shelley's shoulders.

It was still warm from his body and smelled, faintly like him.

"Thanks." She murmured.

"That was clever. Goading him into getting angry, saying those things in front of the judge. It was a slam dunk case anyway, but that little outburst is the icing on the cake." Wordy noted, shielding his eyes against the beaming sun.

"I have my moments." Shell responded dryly.

They fell back into silence, easily and comfortably.

"What you said in there …" Wordy paused, struggling to grasp the right words, the right way of phrasing things. He had words. He had tons of words. It was just picking the right ones. "Were you telling the truth about not being in love with Blake?"

Shelley didn't answer at first and Wordy feared that she might tell him she lied. Instead she huffed out a breath. "No. It wasn't a lie. I didn't really love him. I don't know if I ever really did. Maybe I'm just meant to love anyone."

"I think you are. You'll find somebody and you'll just fall crazily in love with him. And you'll have a boatload of children and a really ugly dog. You'll let the kids name it something like Biscuit because, well, you just can't stand the look on Shelley Junor's face when you say no."

"I'm not naming my daughter Shelley Junior." She smiled.

"Who said anything about daughters? Michelle Joanne Wooler would be a lovely name for a son." Wordy nudged her leg with his own as she laughed. He felt a wave of satisfaction, glorious satisfaction, when she didn't shy away.

"I was just too young. Too eager. I wanted to be loved. So I settled for Blake." She said with disgust. "Should have held out for a better offer I guess."

Wordy twisted his hands together. Yeah. She'd been eager. So ready for love, so needy for it, that she'd blindly jumped into marriage with a mean son of a bitch. She wanted it so badly that she stuck through years of abuse. He didn't blame her. He had good parents. The kind that loved, deeply, each of their children. Highs or lows, they'd be there. Shelley was just trying to find that.

"I wish I could go back. Tell myself to say no. Go to university. Do something with my life." Shelley wrinkled her nose wistfully. "I always wondered what it was like."

"Wordy! Michelle!" He heard Hardiff before he saw her, stout legs eating up the ground as she approached. Nancy and Marks hovered close behind.

"Well?" Wordy asked, clambering to his feet, offering a hand to help boost Shelley up.

"What did the judge say?" Shelley demanded. "Did they convict?"

"You owe me." Hardiff grumbled.

"Is that a yes?" Nancy asked hopefully.

"If you were asking whether the judge succumbed to my magical charms and sentenced Mr. Nicholson to seven years in Kingston Penitentiary, no chance of parole, my dear Nancy, I'd say the answer is a resounding yes."

Nancy gave what could only be considered, in Wordy's opinion, a squeal. She grabbed him, smacking a kiss on his cheek. He grinned down at her.

"Victory is ours!" She cooed, turning to grab her next victim. Hardiff scoffed as Nancy launched herself into a hug.

Shelley clapped a hand over her heart. It seemed almost too good to be true. She lifted an unsteady to brush back her bangs. Her eyes met Wordy's – hers still shocked, his delighted.

"Free." She croaked. She couldn't believe it. Free at last.

He crushed her to him in a bear hug, swinging her around in a wide circle. It felt good and solid and real. It was overwhelming, this feeling of relief. Her whole body ached with joy – down to her fingertips. When he finally set her down she felt dizzy, drunk and giddy with success.

_Free._

_..._

_..._

_AN: Hello readers. Sorry it's been a while. I just couldn't quite get the words out like I wanted them. Writers block? Yeah - I'm on intimate terms with that dirty rotten bastard. Anyway, reviews make my day/life/year. Every time you review god gives and orphan a puppy. Make them orphans happy.  
_

_Also: Apparently Donna makes an appearance this season? In the finale? Wickedawesome. I'm kind of excited.  
_


	30. Bzzzt

It was, in Shelley's mind, unreasonably cold outside. The temperatures in Toronto had dipped steadily lower, scraping into the near-arctic minus 30s. Standing at the window of her apartment, she stared down into the street where bundled figures tramped by with great haste, toques pulled low over icy cheeks and scarves wound tightly around frost-chapped lips. Children raced past in an array of neon coloured mittens and jackets, their more demurely attired parents scrambling to keep pace. The sun was sinking amidst a blaze of rosy colours, lighting the sky afire with its warm glow.

And despite the extreme chill lingering over the city, snow had not yet come. It seemed odd to Shelley – all the year's she'd live in L'Amoreux she'd always remembered there being snow but this year, so far, it had eluded them. It was highly unusual to get to December without a permanent carpet of snow blanketing the ground. Shell always loved the first snowfall the best. For a while everyone would barricade themselves inside and the world would be pristine and white and quiet. It was beautiful, the way the light would catch on the snowflakes, the way the wind danced them in the air. It would fade to the grey slush that everyone detested soon enough, but in those first moments, it was beautiful.

Cozily, Shell wrapped her oversized sweater around her tighter and turned her back to the window, surveying her surroundings: her new home.

It was basic and simple and clean – a one bedroom apartment stacked on top of an barbershop which was as old as man itself, to Shelley's memory. The barber-landowner had, ironically, lost all his hair in the early 1960s, giving him the appearance of a massive cue ball. The ceilings were unusually high and the floors were battered and scarred planks of fir.

She'd spent the day on her hands and knees scrubbing those floors until they'd shone again. Shell absently ran a hand over her hair, which she'd tugged back, loosely tying it away from her face.

She'd seen the advertisement in the paper, however, and assessing her tip-money, had budgeted out the cost and signed the lease. She loved having her own space – a place to call her own one more. It struck Shelley as she stood in the centre of the nearly bare room that this was her first time living alone. She'd shuffled from her mother's house to the home she'd shared with Blake's to Nancy and Brian's.

Smiling to herself she thought she'd enjoy it. Her furniture was sparse right now – she'd impulsively sold everything from the house she'd shared with Blake. She knew it was silly but she didn't want it anymore. She didn't want any part of that past life. Once the summer rolled around she might be able to pick up some more essentials in the inevitable flurry of garage sales. However, in the mean time, she could easily make by with what she had.

She grinned stupidly at the clumsy, hulking plaid sofa. It was, by and large, the ugliest thing she'd ever seen - the mustard yellow stripes overlapping with patches of muddy green and rust orange. Deb's nephew was graduated from Ryerson in December and heading west in search of a better job so he had offered her the monstrocity for free. And, despite its hideousness, she kind of loved it. It was her first real piece of furniture. Perhaps she could just sew a simple slip-cover: nobody would be any the wiser.

In the spring she'd plant some seeds in the window boxes so in the summer she could leave the windows open and have the scene of flowers drift in on the heavy air. The large windows had been a major plus in Shelley's mind. She could look down, watching the people of L'Amoreux mill through the shops and down the street. See the men and women holding hands, see friends casually sling an arm around their comrade's shoulders, see siblings squabble and parents fret. It was comforting – to see those subtle human interactions. Comforting and fascinating.

Moving back to the window she looked down and felt her heart lurch with joy and surprise when she saw his car carefully slide into the stall in front of her house. She pressed a hand against her stomach. It was silly, really. The fluttery feeling in her gut. It made her nervous. She wasn't quite sure what it was – she'd never felt anything quite like it before.

She watched him jaunt across the pavement. He lifted a hand in greeting to somebody passing the other way. She could see his mouth move – words she couldn't hear through the thick panes of glass. She glanced down at her faded, paint-speckled jeans wishing she had time to change. When a knock thudded on the front door she hurried across to throw open the door.

"Jeez Shell. What have I told you about looking through the peep hole? Asking who it is? Opening the door with the chain on it? You're killing me. " Wordy laughed, breezing past her.

"I saw your car." Shell shrugged easily. "You want coffee? I'm making a pot." She hadn't been, but she figured she might as well if Wordy was there. He practically mainlined caffeine.

"Sure." Wordy smiled, leaning back against the counter as Shelley moved about, gathering grounds and mugs. She was so serious, he thought, as her competent hands filled the kettle, setting it upon the stove. "I haven't been by since we moved you in here. Looks like you're settling in."

Shelley just smiled.

He hesistated before saying. "I heard your divorce came through. I suppose congratulations are an order."

"Yep. Finalized on Monday. Blake contested it, of course, but the judge was willing to expedite the process because of the abuse and his sentencing." Shelley responded cheerily. It was strange that somebody could be so happy about something as morbid as divorce.

"I'm now Ms. Michelle Wooler, divorcee waitress." She opened the fridge, pulling out the milk and adding a healthy dose to the coffee before passing it to Wordy. She dumped sugar in hers instead – she figured if she was going to drink anything as vile as coffee it might as well be sweet.

They stood in her kitchen for a minute, drinking their coffee in silence.

"I don't know why you bother." Wordy announced, smiling into his cup.

"Why I bother what?" Shelley asked.

"Pretending you like it." He gestured to her mug with his own. "You've always hated coffee, Shell. "

Shell sighed, setting it on the counter. Who was she kidding. She couldn't fool him. "I always figure this will be the time I get it. This is when I'll get as addicted as everyone else seems to be. I figure if millions of people drink it every day there must be some redeeming features to it. I serve enough of it to know exactly how much people down. I think we went through a hundred gallons yesterday alone."

"It's cold outside. Coffee's hot." Wordy sipped again. And that's when it caught his eye.

"What is that?" He asked, gape-jawed. Shelley followed his startled gaze.

"It's a couch." Shelley answered defensively.

"On what planet is that considered a couch?" Wordy asked, moving forward to inspect it closer. "That is sacrilegious, Shell. It is made of pure ugly.'

She grinned. "I know, right? Isn't it fantastic?"

Wordy snorted. "Only you could love a couch like that."

Shelley shot him a look. "Shh. You'll hurt its feelings."

He shot her a pained look. "It's a couch, darling." He plopped down on the worn cushions – they gave way like butter. "A surprisingly comfortable but none-the-less horrendous couch."

Shelley sat on the opposite end of the couch, curling her legs up under her as she turned to face Wordy. "Are you done your Christmas shopping yet?" She asked casually.

Wordy scoffed. "Hardly. I figure if I leave it long enough Hailey'll cave and do it for me." He grinned thinking of his sister. It was a game they played every year – they'd see who would hold out the longest. Hailey, who was prepared for Christmas before fall's leaves even began to drop from their trees' gnarled limbs, usually called chicken by early December. This year was the longest she'd held, with barely a week to go until the 25th. Wordy liked to think he was doing her a favour. She loved shopping. And, as she was done all hers well before Christmas, she wouldn't have the insurmountable pleasure of holiday shopping. The crowds she lovingly and romantically dubbed 'bustling' Wordy thought of as smothering and burgeoning with petty criminals waiting to relieve you of your wallet. The holidays brought out the best and the worst in people.

"So she's back from school. Her exams are done? It's hard to think she'll be graduating next year. Seems like last year she was in pigtails and overalls, trying to pry the training wheels of her tricycle."

"Tell me about it." Wordy sighed heavily. "She's got a boyfriend."

"Surely not the first." Shelley raised an eyebrow. Hailey had inherited their mother's beauty.

"Yeah. But he's the first that's stuck. You know Hailey. She flips through guys faster than you page through a magazine. This one's outlasted all the others by miles."

"Serious business." Shelley smiled. "You run his background check yet?"

Wordy grimaced. "Ouch. No – I haven't. It thought about it – I was tempted. But she'd be pissed. I did, however, make sure to glower at him menacingly when I met him this fall when I visited her in Ottawa. I gave him my best bad-cop look. It clearly said: 'You break my sister's heart I will break you'. I hope it terrified him." Wordy muttered bitterly taking another gulp of rapidly cooling coffee.

Shelley laughed.

"I know I shouldn't worry. She's a smart girl – and she's got good judgement when it comes to men. But… you know." Wordy shrugged a shoulder.

_Unlike me_. She thought to herself. "No. You love her. You just want to protect her." She smiled wryly. She glanced away quickly. Wordy studied her troubled face for a minute, puzzled. He wasn't sure what he'd said but somewhere along the way he'd made her uncomfortable.

Wordy sighed inwardly. He wasn't quite sure what to say to her, sometimes. His tongue would tangle, the wrong words would come tumbling out.

"Damn. It's snowing." He sighed heavily, looking over her shoulder to the window where large flakes were streaming past. The roads would be a bitch tonight – if things got bad enough he might get recalled. He'd really been looking forward to a night off.

Shelley's head snapped up. "It is?" She asked, jumping to her feet to race to the window. Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "It is!" She proclaimed, grinning ear to ear. "It's snowing." For a moment he just watched her. Her profile seemed to glow in the hazy light of the street lamps below. Her hair was falling out of the tangled knot, caught like golden thread in that lazy sheen of those lights below. Wordy rose, moving to stand behind her, keeping his hands tucked safely in his pockets where they wouldn't be tempted to touch her.

The scene was undoubtedly pretty – the crisp white flakes falling, ever faster, coating the ground. The way the wind caught them, swirling them through the air, was picturesque. They flickered in the light of stores and lamps below. Wordy could see Shelley's eyes dancing in the reflection of the glass.

"I forgot how much you like snow." He grinned.

Shelley shrugged happily. Impulsively she reached over, grabbing his hand. "Let's go."

"You want to go outside? In this?" Wordy asked incredulously, glancing from Shelley's eager face to the storm building outside. When she nodded he just sighed. "Why the hell not."

**... ... ... ...**

Shelley pulled him along the sidewalk, hand in mittened hand, until they reached the park a block up. The streets were empty – people were eager to get home before the worst hit. It would be hours before the city's ploughs would come through, sweeping aside the banks of snow.

Tilting back her face to the sky, she watched the snow come barreling down. She opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue to try to catch one. Wordy just tugged his toque lower, cursing the winds. His ears were cold. They were damned near frozen.

Shelley held out her arms, spinning faster and faster until she slipped, landing on the ground with a oomph. Wordy grimaced, reaching forward to help her up. He offered her his hand, prepared to haul her to his feet. He caught the glimmer too late, the unmistakably mischievous gleam in Shelley's blue eyes. She went slack suddenly, shifting and dropping her weight, sending Wordy topping into the snow beside her.

He sputtered, spitting out the mouthful of snow he'd inhaled in the fall. Beside him Shelley laughed hysterically, clambering to her feet and racing away.

"Oh. You come back here." He yelled, jumping to race after her. He had the distinct advantage of height, but Shelley proved evasive, ducking, dodging and squirming past him. She was decidedly agile and had considerably better balance. She turned on a dime, kicking up huge clouds of powdery snow. He, on the other hand, skittered on wobbly legs, falling and slipping on the treacherously slip terrain. He threw out an arm to catch her, brushing within inches of her jacket sleeve as she ducked around a massive oak tree. She sent a snowball flying in his direction, forcing him to veer off to avoid it.

He managed to nab her as she made a dash for the open field, flipping them off balancing, skidding across the new snow. He tried to shift so she landed on top of him but the momentum sent them spinning end over end.

They finally came to a halt with Wordy splayed above her. His mind went deliriously wonderfully blank for a moment as his body registered the feel of Shelley against him. Some primitive rush of desire swamped him. When he felt her tense beneath him he forced himself to haul it back in. God's sake, this was Shelley. Just months before he'd been hauling her abusive husband off her bleeding body. She wasn't ready. She wasn't even close to being ready to be near a man like this. He tried to push himself off – he knew that he must be crushing her. But he found the ground to slick with snow and tumbled back down on top of Shelley.

He turned his head to mutter an apology and, to his puzzlement, found Shelley grinning wildly.

"What are you….?" The question spilled out only to be met with the handful of snow she shoved at him. She tried rolling out from under him but, recognizing it as his last defense, Wordy merely flopped, pinning her to the ground with his mass. Keeping her arms pinned with one hand, he reached up to wipe away the melting gobs of snow.

"You think you're pretty funny, don't you?" He asked, scrubbing a soaked mitten across his icy cheeks.

"Matter of fact…" Shelley the sentence trail off as she broke off into a fit of laughter.

"Truce." He glared down at her, warningly. "And if you try and pull that again I'll bury you in a snowbank. They won't find your body til spring. By which point I'll have moved to Mexico and changed my name to Fernando. Mexico. Where it never snows. Glorious, glorious, Mexico." He rolled onto his back.

Legs interlocked, she rolled with him. Her laughter died in her through.

He couldn't breathe. Looking up into her eyes, he couldn't think straight. He was lost.

Shelley leaned forward, ever so slowly. Drawing closer.

He was going crazy inside. But he didn't move.

She lowered her lips ever so slowly until she seemed to be hovering only inches away. He could feel her hot breath against his cheek. He couldn't say anything. He could hardly believe it was real.

"Wordy?" She whispered. So softly he almost didn't hear. He realized his hand had circled up to tangle itself in her snowy hair, her toque long since lost. Her own hands were pressed firmly against his chest, the heat searing through his winter coat.

He swallowed, hard. He'd thought about this since he was thirteen. _Shelley_.

**Bzzzzzzzt.**

_What the bloody hell?_

Shelley drew back suddenly, startled out of her trance. She stumbled back so quickly she fell backwards, landing awkwardly on her side.

"It's my pager." Wordy muttered, fishing it out of his pocket. Reading the numbers he groaned. _718._ He was getting called back in. He looked up. "I've got to go. They need me at the station."

Shelley had already scrambled to her feet. She nodded, turning back towards her apartment. They walked in silence, each wondering. Each wishing.


	31. Feel the Same Way

_AN: Oh - by the way. I hit over 100 reviews on this story - a huge milestone in my humble opinion. You guys are bomb. Thanks for reading._

**... ... ... **

"You _WHAT?_" Nancy exclaimed. Shelley, embarrassed, glanced around to see if any of the other shoppers had heard her outburst. Clearly Christmas shopping was insane in the week before the big event and, failing a nuclear blast or an invasion by a nudist colony, the throngs of busy shoppers were too engrossed in their mission to pay any attention to the two women standing in front of the camera display.

"Nothing. It was nothing." Shelley muttered, desperately wishing she hadn't said anything at all. Only she needed _advice_.

"You _kissed _Wordy?" Nancy stared at her slack jawed. A salesperson, a fresh-faced teen in the blue-polo uniform hurried up but Nancy dismissed him with a shake of her head.

"No." Shelley responded uncomfortably, taking the whining Charlie from his stroller to bob on her hip. She turned to fuss with his pacifier so she wouldn't have too Nancy in the eye. "I said I almost kissed him. Big difference."

_But she would have if it hadn't been for the pager_.

"You _almost _kissed Wordy?" Nancy asked. "_Almost?_"

"Isn't that what I said?" Shelley snapped.

"Sorry. It's just … It's a shock." Nancy said slowly. "So why didn't you?"

"Because. I'm me. He's him. We're us. "

"Okay. And?"

"I just can't screw things up with Wordy. He's my friend. He's been a really good friend. I can't afford to get all weird about it."

"But you wanted to kiss him?" Nancy raised an eyebrow at her.

"I guess so. I don't know. It was an out of body experience. I don't know what came over me." Shelley rubbed her forehead viciously, as if she could erase the memory. It was humiliating.

"Okay. So why is that a problem?" Nancy asked, turning to examine the grey and black lenses and models. She knew exactly which one she wanted to get Brian. She'd already picked it out from the catalogue. But Shelley would let more slip if she thought Nancy was distracted. Worked every time, she thought, grinning down at the shiny Nikons and Canons. Every single time.

"The problem is he's my friend." Shelley sighed.

"Okay. And?" Nancy responded, seemingly absently.

"And I don't want things to get weird. I don't want to lose him as my friend. I'm not good at relationships Nancy. I'm terrible at them." Shelley frowned.

"You've only been in the one. And, well, the big problem in that relationship I'd put down as his fault." Nancy replied, picking up one camera and running her hands over the sleek body. "Are you attracted to him? Wordy?"

"I don't know." Shelley surprised herself. "I think so. I just … I get this weird feeling whenever he's around."

"Hm." Nancy turned so Shelley wouldn't see the smile creeping across her face. "Like what?"

"Like … like my heart stops. And then all of a sudden it's beating a million miles an hour. And then there's this feeling in my stomach. I can't describe it. It's like it drops out or something. And I feel all numb and hollow." Shelley pressed her face against Charlie's downy hair. She was getting butterflies just thinking about it – lying there in the snow with him, her lips only inches from his.

"That's how I felt about Brian. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was being stupid. But I knew in my heart that he was different. And that's why I felt all these crazy, big emotions. He made me feel all these things I'd never even dreamt of before. I was terrified. It was the scariest thing of all, trusting him. Trusting myself. But it was worth it." She smiled, plucking Charlie out of Shelley's arms.

Shelley said nothing, but her face furrowed in contemplation.

"I'll take this one." She pointed a model out to the sales rep, sending him scampering away to retrieve a boxed version.

"I don't want to screw up – that's all."

"You're going to let a fear of failure prevent you from giving a sweetheart like Wordy a chance?" Nancy asked.

"What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if he's just being nice." The thought was humiliating. What if she threw herself at him and he turned around and said _sorry – not interested. _He'd do it nicely, of course. Because that's the kind of guy Wordy is. He's nice. Painfully so, sometimes. He'd be gentle and polite and it would rip her heart out.

Nancy hummed and hawed internally. To tell or not to tell? "Sweetheart, I have a feeling he's not going to turn you down." She patted her shoulder.

"Listen. Dance with him on New Years. The midnight dance. At the end you do the happy-new-year kiss. If it's terrible you laugh it off, no biggie. If it's fantastic – which I have a feeling it will be – then you've got a shoe in the door. It's a win-win." Nancy pulled out her card to pay, rapidly punching in numbers and winching at her diminishing savings. It would be worth it, however, watching Brian open it on Christmas morning. She knew he'd been lusting after a digital camera for months now.

Shelley considered the plan. "It won't work. He's working New Years." She groaned.

"No. He swapped shifts with another officer. The guy has kids and pulled the morning shift so Wordy swapped him. He's coming to our New Years party. Perfect opportunity."

The gears in Shelley's head spun slowly. _Maybe …_

"Fantastic." Nancy said gleefully, swinging the bag on her arm as she pushed the stroller out fo the store. "Lovely. Now. What are you going to wear?"

"What?" Shelley asked, snapping back to reality.

"You need a new dress. Something short. Something red. Something that screams 'look at me'. This is going to be _fun_." Nancy laughed, grabbing Shelley's hand.


	32. Darling

Shelley glanced at the door for what had to be the hundredth time in the last hour. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. She was being stupid and silly. She'd foolishly let Nancy talk her into buying a new dress – one that was far too short and far too low. And when she'd strapped on the glittery heels she'd splurged on to match, she'd learned an invaluable lesson about fashion: as you go up, so does the hemline. She hadn't worn anything quite so daring since middle school when Nancy had convinced her to buy a belly shirt which she'd promptly tossed into her closet after the first and only time wearing it.

Shelley smoothed a hand down the side of her dress, trying to resist the urge to tug it down to cover more of her legs. After all. Pulling it down only meant less fabric to cover it chest. It really was a lose-lose situation. The satiny dress skimmed several inches above the knee, the fabric cinching in at her waist and flowing downwards in a fall of cornflower blue. They'd picked the colour, specifically, because it matched her eyes, which Nancy had smeared with the kind of makeup Shelley personally thought of as war paint. But, glancing herself in the mirror, she had to admit it looked nice. She'd darkened them, somehow. She looked almost … sultry.

And, of course, Nancy hadn't stopped there. She'd curled and fluffed Shelly's hair until it waved around her shoulders in a blond curtain. It looked, to Shelley's mind, sexily tousled. Like she'd just crawled out of bed. Or was ready to crawl into one.

So here she was, alone at Nancy's New Year's party, seventeen minutes to midnight, awaiting the arrival of prince charming in a white Crown-Victoria cop car. She glanced over at the clock in the hallway. Correction. Sixteen minutes.

She spotted Nancy skirting through the crowds of flirtatious drunks, zeroing in on her.

"He's not coming." She groaned.

"He is." Nancy assured her evenly.

"He got called back into work." Shelley wasn't sure who was less convinced: Nancy or herself.

"He didn't. He would have called." Nancy said calmly.

"What if he brings somebody?" She asked.

"He's not." Nancy replied.

"What if he forgets?" Shelley was desperate for an excuse to leave. She should have stayed home. Watched the ball drop on TV. Read a book. Sullenly stare at a wall. Really – anything would do.

"He won't. Jeez Shell. Calm down. You're making me anxious with all your fidgeting. Have a drink. Liquid courage, dollface." Nancy passed Shell her own flute of champagne. Shelley knocked it back in a single gulp.

"Slow down there, cowgirl." Nancy chuckled, taking back the empty glass.

When Shelley glanced at the clock again, Nancy merely slung her arm around her shoulder jovially. "He's _coming_. I swear to you." She'd had only had to beg, nag and plead Wordy into coming tonight. He'd been elusive since what Nancy had come to think of as the AFK: 'the _almost_-first kiss'. Probably because he knew that she could read him like a freaking paperback novel. He was as open as a book to her. He'd never been terribly great at hiding his feelings and, well, they'd grown up together. She caught ever nuance and expression.

The morning after she'd gone shopping with Shel she'd bribed him into coming over with a plate of brownies. Not hers, of course. Nancy was terrible at baking – she'd bought them for a pretty penny at the bakery two blocks away. She claimed she needed a male opinion on Brian's Christmas present. He'd hesitated, which read volumes to Nancy as he had a sweet-tooth that should have had him jumping at the opportunity to scarf down chocolate. He was, most definitely, avoiding her. Probably because he expected her to try and pump him for details. Which had been, admittedly, what she had been dying to do.

Instead she'd plied him with coffee and dessert. She'd asked what he'd been up to lately and when he gave a forced and uncomfortable shrug she'd merely moved onto the next phase in her plan: insisting he come to their New Year's party. He'd tried to shirk her, telling her he might be working. Which, she knew was a lie. He mentioned vague notions of having plans. Which she was pretty sure was a lie too. So she'd pressured him until he'd caved, promising to swing by on his way home after he finished up with his afternoon shift.

He'd promised. Nancy knew that Wordy did not break promises.

A short man in a Hawaiian shirt sauntered up and Nancy, catching the predatory gleam in his eye and considered moving into to intervene and shoot him down. But an idea sparked in her brain and she smiled invitingly instead.

"Shelley. You've met Michael haven't you?" She moved forward to introduce them. "He was at our wedding." Shelley frowned with confusion. She smiled politely, shaking Michael's hand.

"What are you doing?" She hissed under her breath.

"Play nicely." Nancy warned her. Michael was mostly harmless. He was related to Brian – somehow. She wasn't quite sure of the specifics. His great-aunt's stepdaughter's nephew or something. Newfie families were confusing.

"You up for a jig there b'y?" He asked, his round face sheened with perspiration. His thin brown hair was plastered against his head with too much gel.

Shelley glanced at Nancy, trying to protest. "I … erm … I'm sort of … uhm, I was waiting for …" She looked at Nancy desperately. Nancy just smiled brilliantly.

"A quickie then, love." He'd already started pulling her into a quick-stepped dance. Over his shoulder Shel sent her a dazed and frantic look. Nancy just crossed her arms and stood back to admire her handiwork. In a few minutes it would all come together. So long as Wordy arrived in time. If not… well having a bad New Years kiss with Michael was better than no kiss at all, in her opinion.

"Nance!" She heard him call her name and, turning, she spotted him coming in from the kitchen, squeezing past a couple furiously and enthusiastically making out. He must have come around the side door. "This place is packed! Do you ever know half of these people?"

Nancy shrugged. "The ones I don't I'm sure Bri does." She grinned, reaching up on tip-toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Thanks for coming, Kev."

"Not a problem. Was just coming off shift when we got a last minute call. Girl wandering around the golf club, no jacket, drunk as hell. She keeps trying to lie in the middle of the road. She's telling us she's 19. She's got a decent Saskatchewan fake, but her highschool ID tells us she's a sophomore. We're trying to bring her home to her parents but we can't get a straight address out of her. I told her, unless she wanted to spend midnight in my cruiser, where god knows how many drunks, homeless men and dirtbag criminals have thrown up, jacked offed, spat and peed she'd give me parents address."

"Did she?"

"Hells yeah she did. Wouldn't you?" Wordy grinned. He'd snagged a beer in on his way through the kitchen and, popping the cap, he lifted the cool glass to his lips. He quickly scanned the room. No sign of Shelley. He felt both disappointed and a touch relieved. He hadn't seen her since the afternoon at her apartment. He wasn't sure how to act. She _knew _now. He didn't want her to feel some kind of obligation to him. He wanted her. Surely. He always had. But he wanted her to want him back.

"Where's Shell?" He asked casually, he hoped.

To cover her smirk, Nancy lifted her wine glass to her lips. "Oh. I set her up with Michael."

"Who?" Wordy asked sharply, his response was immediate, the pang of jealousy hitting him strongly. He took another gulp of Heineken to dampen his dry mouth and wash down the bitter taste in his throat.

"He's Brian's cousin. Well not really a cousin. A we're-all-from-Newfounland-so-we-must-all-be-related cousin. He's a nice enough chap." She waved a hand in their general direction and Wordy caught a glance of her.

It socked him in the gut – the sight of her. It was more poignant than ever. The insane pull he felt towards her. She was wearing blue – the same deep rich blue as her eyes, he knew. It hugged her body, skimming down to mid-thigh. Was she really so tall? He thought glancing down what he could only think must have been miles and miles of leg. He forced himself to take another swig of beer. He had a hard time swallowing.

Her hair was … different, tumbling freely around her face. She was laughing, her red lips peeled back in a huge grin as the dark haired man in front of her smoothly transitioned from the sprinkler into the robot.

"Whoah." Was all he could say.

"Not exactly graceful is he." Nancy grimaced. "Wordy, love, do us all a favour and rescue Shelley. Before Michael sprains something."

He hesitated. On one hand he wasn't really sure it was a good idea to thrust himself into another situation with Shelley. Apparently he had no control around her. The day at the park his mind just shut down and his body took over. And, god, the way she looked tonight he wasn't sure if he could resist. But on the other hand, he had a hard time resisting a damsel in distress.

Michael launched himself into one of the most bizarre dances Wordy had ever seen, legs and arms flailing to an imaginary rhythm. Grimacing, Wordy thrust his half-empty beer at Nancy. "Hold this."

He strode across the living room, slipping through the throngs of partygoers.

"Michelle." He called when he was within earshot. She whipped around, stumbling as she lost her footing in the too-high heels. He grabbed her to steady her – his hand closing over her upper arm. The skin tingled where his warm palm pressed against her. She felt her breath hitch and struggled to smile.

"Wordy! I was hoping you'd come." She said

"Sorry I was late, darling." He said wrapping his other arm around her territorially, sending a sidelong glance at Michael. "Got held up at the station."

"What?" Shelley asked, confused. _Darling?_

"You promised me the uh, final dance of the year,babe. Don't break my heart and tell me you forgot." He grinned down at her, brushing a lock of hair back from her face. Her own heart came to a stuttered halt. Her stomach dropped out from beneath her. She looked back into his green eyes. She'd never noticed – but they were kind of grey around the centre. Like a ring of silver. When he gave a small jerk in Michael's directions her gaze slid over the other man. She'd forgotten all about him.

"Oh. I'm so sorry Michael. I must have forgotten."

He beamed back at her. "It's all right m'dear. Go on then. Have a good time." He disappeared back through a thick group of people. Leaving Shelley all alone with Wordy. It was strange how you could be alone with somebody when there were so many people around. But it was true. Nobody else seemed to matter, at that moment.

"Sorry. You looked like you needed a hand." Wordy said, stepping back. Shelley wanted to step forward, close that distance again.

"Thanks." She responded. "I suppose we should dance then, shouldn't we?" She held out her hand, palm up. The music, as if by some divine conspiracy, slowed into a more mellowed beat. Couples around them began to slowdance, swaying to the languid rhythm of the tune. Wordy cursed himself for throwing himself into this sort of situation but bravely stepped forward, taking her hand and drawing her close. It pained him a bit – to hold her so near when he knew that she'd never really be his. Not like he wanted or needed anyway.

Shelley started as a couple jostled them and instinctively Wordy drew her closer, his hand falling to rest on her lower back. He could smell her now, the vanilla and roses scent of her perfume. She laid her cheek against his chest.

"Kevin." She wasn't sure why she said it. She always called him Wordy. His first name felt so _intimate_.

Her cheeks looked flush and, to be honest, Wordy needed a moment. He needed a minute away from other people. Just to breathe. "Let's go outside." He said, stepping back and easing through the crowd. Clutching his hand, she bumped through behind him.

He snagged his coat on the way out back door, wrapping it around her shoulders as he pulled her out onto the snowy lawn. The moonlight lay like diamonds on the newly fallen snow, casting the whole yard in a white glow. In it Shelley looked, if possible, even more beautiful.

She turned those eyes on him – the same eyes he'd dreamed of since he'd been a boy. He needed to say something. Anything.

"Here's to a better year." He mumbled, rocking back on his heels to look up at the sky.

"I can agree to that." She smiled. "For both of us, really. Last New Years I was still living in fear. Still married to a bastard who hit me. I was losing who I was. Now I'm out. And I think I'm me again."

"Yeah." He spoke quietly. Inside they could hear the crowd counting down the last few minutes of the old year.

_30…29…28…27_

"I wanted to say thank you. For coming home. I don't know if any of this would have happened without you." Shelley told him.

_19…18…17…16_

"It was all you, Shell. You're a brave woman." He shrugged his shoulders. He'd always been a bit uncomfortable with praise.

_7…6…5…_

She was standing so close she could hear his heart beating. She took another step forward. _Be brave Michelle. You see something you want you have to reach for it. It's there. Just reach out and grab it._

"Michelle?" Wordy asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The breath he drew in wasn't quite steady.

3…2

_Now, Shelley. Now_. "Happy New Years." She closed the distance pressing her lips firmly to his. Soft and gentle, they brushed his. He couldn't move – not even if he'd wanted to. He couldn't be sure who deepened the kiss. He had a burning and insatiable need for her. The kind that kindled in his bones, heated his blood. As he urged her closer and, in response, she twined her arms around his neck. She'd never been kissed that this before. The kind of brain-numbing kiss every girl dreams about. She committed it to the memory - his taste, the texture of his lips, the feel of his hand pressing against her back. The other cupping her face, calloused thumb gently massaging her cheek. He groaned as she drew back, lips tingle, face flushed to look at him.

The small piece of his heart he'd managed to keep from falling in love with her teetered over that cliff, plummeting head over heels. He knew, in that instant, that Shelley was, undeniably, perfectly, wholly and completely the woman he had always and would always love.

"Is … is this okay?" She asked gently, hand tracing his jaw.

"Perfect." He managed before crushing his mouth to her again, spinning her in a jubilant circle. "It's absolutely perfect."

**... ... ... .. **

AN: Hi everyone. I realized today that this story is, like, 30 chapters long and this is their first damned kiss. What can I say? I love writing Wordy and Shelley. This chapter may be a bit sappy - let me know if you think I should reign it in. I don't do ... emotional well without getting a touch emo. This story doesn't yet feel done to me. There's so much more I want to do with it. Unfortunately I leave for my summer field study on Tuesday and won't be back until August. Meaning no new chapters for a long while. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick through my absence.


	33. Skates

_AN: Holy Batman it's been a long time. I know some people might be wondering what exactly happened. To be honest, when I got back in August I just blanked. Writers block shut this puppy down. I was also kind of paralyzed by the fact that I was sure you guys wouldn't like where I was taking the story next. After the violence of Shelley's marriage, the drama of the trial and then the whirlwind of trying to get her together with Wordy ... I was really worried you guys would think their actual courtship was boring. But the truth is this is kind of how I pictured it going down. They're regular people. They're incredibly normal. And they both deserve a little time to have fun, and flirt, and be a couple. Their lives shouldn't be a constant roller coaster all the time. So. I'm sorry if you don't like it. I am. Because I want people to enjoy reading my story. But ultimately I've got to be happy with what I write. I've still got more tricks up my sleeve, but for a little while at least I'm content to let Shelley and Wordy settle into their romance._

_Thanks for sticking with me through the intensely long drought. I appreciate all the feedback, encouragement and prodding to keep at it.  
_

**...**

Winter was truly hitting its full swing, slamming Toronto with its frigid power. Ice coated the narrow streets and broad city boulevards, dripping from house peaks in long, glistening spikes. Snow buried cars and piled up in front of homes, at first a pure white before fading into a sluggish grey beneath the tread of boot-shorn feet and muddy tires. The world was stuck in a seemingly-eternal freeze, the blasting heat of muggy summers long since forgotten.

Shelley didn't mind so much. She rather liked winter. Or this winter at least, she thought, smiling to herself and tucking her mittened hands into her jacket pockets. Life was different than it had ever been for her. It was truly beautiful.

She was safe, she was surrounded by people she loved and that loved her back. She woke up every morning in a warm bed, in an apartment she called all her own. She had a job, a pitiful little savings account and a truly ugly couch. She had independence and, best of all, hope. And, she reminded herself, with a small grin, she had a truly spectacular boyfriend.

She glanced at her watch. He'd have gotten off shift twenty minutes ago. He wouldn't tell her what they were doing today, but he'd told her to meet him at the park only a couple blocks from her apartment. Her stomach gave a jump. It seemed like no matter how often she thought him it was always a little start to her system. A little jolt. A pleasant one.

So she waited, heart bumping against her ribcage a million miles an hour. The cheery Christmas lights were still strung between the parks' tall green lampposts, dousing the park in a festive glow. A small rink had been constructed not far from the path, its glassy surface reflecting, hazily, the brazen red of the dying sun above. A handful of people were gliding about on silver blades, turning and twisting like leaves in a strong autumn breeze. Children raced and hollered with fun. A teenaged couple held hands as the spun around. Their laughter was carried by the wind, making Shelley smile.

"Shell! Hey!" She found herself picked up, spun, and hugged tight. His voice, his smell, the solidity of his arms around her… it was perfect. Shelley's body was filled with a sunny warmth, tingling down into the very tips of her cold-numbed fingers. The cold of the mid-winter's day subsided, at least temporarily.

Locking her hands behind his neck she reached up, on tippy-toes and kissed him. And when she drew back they were both grinning.

"How was your day?" She asked. She thought she'd be tongue-tied and shyly nervous around anybody new. But it wasn't like that. Maybe it was because Wordy wasn't really _new_. Their relationship was new. But she'd known him forever.

"Good." He grinned happily, tussling her hair with his free hand. "Pretty bland. We got a transfer from the 51st division. Detective Lane. He's majorly intense. We nabbed a guy lifting computers from an electronic store over on the east side? The robber's got to be topping six-five, three hundred. Built like an ox. And he's going down swinging. I'm trying to avoid copping one to the face. New guy comes flying out of nowhere, lands a choker hold. Guys out before he hits the floor. Toppled right over. This guy's incredible. You should meet him."

"Hm." She hummed teasingly. "Sounds … efficient."

"On second thought, stay far, far away." Wordy said cocking an eyebrow at her.

It was then Shelley noticed the knotted laces slung casually over Wordy's shoulder. Her heart sank a fraction. While Wordy had played in the junior hockey league growing up her mother had never managed to scrape together enough money for skates. They were expensive and her mother often didn't even make enough to cover the rent. Extras like skates were a luxury Shelley had never known. So she'd never learned. While she admired the rink-goers for their gracefulness, she was clumsy and uncoordinated.

"I grabbed Hailey's this morning for you." He said, noting her glance. "I figured you're about the same size. I think they're 8s."

Shelley's hope that they wouldn't fit was firmly squashed. "That's about right." She replied casually, trying to cover her apprehension.

Wordy caught the glimmer of concern. "What's the matter Shell?" He asked.

"I don't know how to." She admitted with a small shrug.

"Yeah, I know." He answered. When she frowned he continued. "You skipped every PE class where we had to go the rink, you always made excuses not to come to the Christmas skates. Pretty obvious. Don't worry. I'll teach you." He grinned taking her hand and leading her towards the sheet of glassy ice.

She fretted as they sat, side by side, on the nearest park bench, tying with fumbling, gloved fingers the long white laces. She tried to follow Wordy's examples, cinching them tight, looping them around the metal studs and tying them in sturdy little knots over the criss-crossing strings.

She tottered on unsteady legs to the edge of the boards, taking a deep breath. The air dropped to an even lower temperature. Shelley tried to tell herself that it was the icy surface of the rink and not her imagination but a bead of sweat tricked down her neck. The breeze tickled across it, sending a freezing shiver down her spine.

A pair of kids zoomed by. They were going awfully fast, weren't they? She asked herself, frowning.

Wordy, hopping over the boards in one move, silent and graceful, like some kind of skillful panther silently slinking through the jungle in search of prey. She blushed, grateful he couldn't know her thoughts. He reached across the divide, helping hoist her over the short walls and onto the rink.

The skates seemed to slip beneath her feet and she lurched forward, clutching Wordy's coat hand, the other sawing through the air in an attempt to restore her balance. Wordy chuckled.

"Come on." He said, easing back a stride. Shelley tried to keep up but trotting across the ice on the spikes proved difficult, with each step feet sleeping, legs bowing and trembling. She managed a few strides, each as clumsy and stuttering as the next. She held her arms rigidly out to try and balance herself on the sharp blades. A whirl of movement seemed to surround them as others sped past, giving them a massive berth – all laughs and smiles and brightly coloured winter coats.

"Don't lift your feet up. You're trying to walk, Shell. You've kind of got to push down and out." He said easily and lazily skating backwards as Shelley clenched his hands tightly. She heaved her weight into it, plowing forward into Wordy's chest. He easily pivoted, swinging her around in a circle. The air was sucked out of Shelley's lungs as, for a minute, her feet lifted off the ice entirely. Wordy finished the easy circle before carefully setting her back down.

"You know. I'm not going to let you fall." He said seriously.

"I know." She replied with a smile. Because … she believed him. She pulled of her mitten off, tucking it into her pocket. She took his hand in her own, his hot palm pressed against her own, his heartbeat pounding against hers. "I know you won't. Lets try again."

She pushed off on her skates once more, this time a little less shaky than before.

**...**

_Yeah. I threw in an Ed reference. One of the writers' interviews about Wordy said that Ed gave him the nickname when they were beatcops together. So I figured they probably knew each other, at least peripherally, before the SRU. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. I'm pretty positive the wait for the next chapter wont' be anywhere NEAR as long!_


	34. All Grown Up

Shelley hummed to herself as she wiped down the counter of the diner, clearing off the crumbs of the last customer's doughnut. She sent Mr. Williams a knowing wink as she refilled his coffee – on the house. She wondered if Blake had told any of his cellmates about how a ninety-year-old great-grandfather armed with a walking stick had kneecapped him while he was trying to attack his wife. Now that the ordeal was over she could laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Grinning, she turned to greet the newest customer as the door bells chimed their entrance. A short figure stood silhouetted against the blizzard of snow outside, carefully wrapped against the freezing clutches of the early February cold.

"Sit anywhere you like." She called, clicking the coffee machine to start brewing afresh. The woman shrugged off her winter coat, slinging it over one of the wall hooks by the door before turning to face Shelley.

"Actually I was hoping to talk to you." She said, carefully unwrapping the mile-long ruby-coloured scarf from her delicate features.

Shelley paused a moment. "Hailey?"

"It's me all right." The girl grinned back at her.

Shelley skirted around the counter to give Wordy's youngest sister a hug. "God. I haven't seen you since you were about 10 years old and your mother asked me to babysit. Jeez. You're all grown up now. When'd that happen?"

"Somewhere between the sixth grade and starting my last semester I suppose. Only another couple months to go before I'm done." Hailey shrugged, rubbing her chilled hands together.

"Are you home for reading break?" Shelley asked, easing back a step.

"Yeah. My boyfriend and some of our friends headed down to Florida for the week but I had some papers to research so I decided to stick around instead." Hailey leaned against the counter.

"Do you drink coffee?" Shelley asked. Then shook her head. "You're a university student. Of course you drink coffee. Here. I'll get you a cup and a menu. See if anything calls your name."

"That would be wonderful, thanks. Why don't you grab a cup and join me. You don't look to busy." She glanced around the diner, empty aside from Mr. Williams who was contentedly tapping away to the beat of his radio, steaming mug satisfactorily full.

"Why not?" Shelley asked, moving behind the counter to get two mugs. Filling one with coffee and her own with tea, she selected a fresh-from-the-oven blueberry scone and set it on a plate. Balancing her load she slipped into the engine-red leather booth across from Hailey.

"Yum." Hailey said, glancing down at the puffy white triangles, artfully decorated by dots and flecks of deep purple from the berries.

"We aim to please." She smiled. You could hardly see the out the window for the thick cloud of snow swirling outside. It was going to be a slow day, she thought, lifting her cup to her lips. Not many would venture out in such awful weather.

"I hear from my mother that you and Kev are an item." Hailey said casually, carefully cracking open her scone. She nearly groaned as the scent curled upwards, rising with the plumes of steam from the still-hot pastry.

"Oh." Shelley said, nearly fumbling the mug. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that he'd told his family. It wasn't like they were keeping it a secret or anything. Her heart started to pound a little faster. But they were still keeping things light and casual. She hadn't thought of what his family might think of Wordy dating some futureless townie girl who'd married right of highschool. She could imagine how it looked. A washed-up waitress with nothing more than a high-school diploma, hot off the tails of a messy divorce. She wasn't exactly the catch every woman dreamed of for her baby son or big brother.

Hailey quirked an eyebrow. Shelley was nervous. She wasn't sure if that was a very good sign or a very bad one. "Mom got it out of the neighbour whose daughter's boyfriend works at movie theater. He said you two were holding hands in line at concession. So naturally Mom grilled him." She said cheerfully, smearing a pat of butter of her scone.

"Oh." Shelley said again. She tried to mirror Hailey's casual demeanor. She had to bite down on the urge to shy away. To find some excuse – some chore to occupy herself. This was dreadfully uncomfortable.

"Yeah. He was pretty tight-lipped about it too. Stubborn asshole. So I came here to hear it from you myself." She grinned cheekily. "Delicious by the way." She said, taking another mouthful.

"Well." Shelley said finally. "We've … we're seeing how things go." She winced inwardly at the lame cliché.

"He said something like that too." Hailey said. "Well, he also had some choice words about me interfering in his business and about being a nosy brat in general. It's ironic. I know very well he's run a criminal history check on Ty."

"Actually he hasn't." Shelley corrected automatically. He'd wanted to. But he hadn't.

"Really? Well. That's something." Hailey said. It made her feel a little guilty, sneaking off to go interrogate Shelley. By all rights she should trust her big brothers' taste and judgement. But Kevin was so …. naive. He was so open. It made him vulnerable, Hailey thought. She didn't want to see him get hurt.

Growing up Hailey had always been closest to him. Their two older sisters, twins, were ten years older than she was. They were always too busy with each other to make time for their youngest sister. But Wordy, four years her senior, always made time. She'd grown up adoring Wordy, dogging his every step. He taught her to ride a bike, string a fishing line and swear like a sailor. She loved her sisters but she'd worshipped her brother. And she just wanted to protect him, she justified.

"So?" Hailey drawled out the question.

"So, what?" Shelley asked carefully.

"So is it serious?" Hailey leaned back in her seat, smoothly crossing denim-clad legs.

"We're taking things slowly." Shelley answered, eyes guarded and posture stiff.

"Hm." Hailey responded noncommittally. She hadn't expected Shelley to gush and rave. But, damnit, she'd wanted some kind of response. Something to tell her that the girl her brother had pined over throughout highschool reciprocated to some degree. That she felt something more than the general affection one feels for a cute puppy.

Shelley bit her lip, staring down into her mug of milky brown tea. She didn't want to say the wrong thing but she just didn't know which words to use. She didn't know how she felt, to be honest.

"I really like your brother, Hailey."

"I'm sure you do. It's hard not to like Kev." Hailey responded, reaching out and covering Shelleys hand with her own. "But … But Shelley. You've know him almost your entire life. Why now?"

"I couldn't tell you. I don't know why I didn't … I can't begin to explain the choices I made. I guess. I never thought he'd be interested in me. I never really saw past our friendship."

"And now you do?" Hailey asked

"I guess. I'm trying."

"I don't want to ask this, Shelley. Because I know you and I've always liked you. But this isn't some gratitude thing is it? For him having saved you from Blake?" Hailey tentatively asked.

"Of course not. No." Shelley furiously answered. "Your brother is a smart, handsome, generous, caring, charming man Hailey. You're not giving him enough credit if you think I'm with him because he pulled me out of a bad situation. I'm with him because he's possibly the best man I've ever known. Because, when I wake up in the morning my first thought is of him. Because when I see him my heart beats a little faster." Shelley frowned a little. She hadn't given a lot of thought to why she was attracted to Wordy. But she supposed she knew subconsciously.

"I'm glad to hear it." Hailey said calmly. The fear that had been building in her heart subsided, assuaged by the fiery look in Shelley's eyes as she defended her brother. "I love my brother. I don't want to see him get hurt."

"I don't want to hurt Wordy." Shelley replied miserably.

"I know. But you might. Kev's soft-hearted. He falls in love easily. He doesn't hold back, you know? He's one of those people that puts themselves out there completely. As a brother, as a friend, as a partner and as a boyfriend. You might not mean to hurt him. But if you can't give him everything he's given you – if you can't feel the same way he feels about you, it would be hard for him." Hailey said gently.

Shelley frowned. "I want to. I want to give him everything he deserves."

"I know. I can see that." Hailey said. "I don't want to scare you off. I'm not telling you that you're bad for him. Mother's absolutely thrilled." She noted Shelley's incredulous expression and laughed.

"She doesn't mind …" Shelley asked.

"That you were married before? No. Mother always had a soft spot for you, to be honest."

"Oh." Shelley uttered. She couldn't quite imagine the formidable dragon of Mrs. Wordsworth giving her the stamp of approval.

"I want you promise me you'll be careful with Wordy. That's why I came here today. I wanted if your face lit up when you talked about him, like his does when he talks about you. I wanted to see if you were serious. If you really liked him." She carefully skirted around the word love. She knew her brother was head over heels. But she didn't want to freak the girl out. She was still a little timid and hesitant. And, considering the last time she'd trusted somebody with her heart that person had beaten her half to death, Hailey couldn't entirely blame the girl. But her heart bled for her brother. He'd have to be so patient. So careful.

"I understand." Shelley said.

"I hoped you would. Please, Shell, be careful with him. Don't let him fall for you if you can't give it all back to him. Just don't break his heart." Her voice gentled.

The door chime jingled and Wordy stepped inside, followed by a strong gust of arctic winds. He spotted the two of them and a grin spread across his face. Slipping into the booth beside her, he gave Shelley an absent peck on the cheek. Where his lips brushed against her skin, it tingled. Hailey wriggled her brows when Shelley met her eyes across the table.

"Two of my favourite women in one spot. How lucky am I?" He said, nipping Hailey's half-empty mug from her fingers. "Coffee too. This must be heaven."

"Hey!" Hailey whined in token protest. "Why not steal hers."

"It's tea." Was Wordy's distainful response as he guzzled down the thick black liquid. He made a face. "Blaugh. You didn't add any sugar."

...

_AN: I decided Wordy's elusive baby sister Hailey should make an appearance. I hope you enjoyed her. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, and to everyone who read this one._


	35. Valentine's Day

_Hey guys. Long time no update. I'm not sure what happened with me. I think I just lost focus or something. But seeing the last episode reminded me how much I love Wordy and how much I really enjoyed writing him and Shelley. And I kind of want to do them some justice and actually finish this fic (not yet but eventually - don't worry). I'm sorry this is been so long. I really am. I totally fell off the wagon on this one. This chapter is slightly more ... explicit. You'll either love it or hate it. I was worried about posting it, seeing as it's been so long. I wrote it. I let it fester for a couple days. I nearly deleted it. And yet here it is. Anyway thanks for your patience and your understanding._

* * *

The mall was bursting with activity. Shoppers paraded in and out of brightly decorated stores. Shop windows were strewn with streamers in hundreds of shades of red and pink. Cupid and this arrows mingled with massive sparkling hearts. Diamonds beckoned and chocolates tempted in their shiny display cases. Women lingered, sighing and lingering over things they craved. Men strode through the crowd, searching frantically for the perfect gift or, post-purchase, an escape route through the surging mob of people.

Shelley had spent last Valentine's day alone. Blake had been on an all-night binge at the bar. And she'd been relieved. Glad to spend the day all alone.

She sighed.

Nancy glanced over worriedly. Shelley had been quiet today - too quiet. More withdrawn than she'd been in months. It made Nancy nervous. Even when things had reached their worst Shelley had always confided in her.

"So any big plans for the big night?" Nancy asked, tone falsely bright.

"I think Kev made reservations for a restaurant." Shelley replied vaguely.

"That'll be nice." Nancy replied evenly.

"Sure." Shelley shrugged. She tried not to sound too glum, but couldn't keep the dregs of melancholy from her voice.

Nancy frowned. "Bri's mom is taking Charlie for the night so we can have some alone time." Something there had been precious seldom of since the birth of their son. Much as she loved her baby, privacy was few and far between with a toddler. And since they were trying to give Charlie a baby brother or sister, a little bit of alone time was absolutely vital.

"There." Nancy gestured triumphantly as she spotted what she'd been looking for. Glancing up Shelley's heart sank. A lingere store. The mannequins in the window were swathed in sheer lace and lush satin. It draped across their pale forms in white, pink and red. Roses, red as rubies were piled in mounds, spilling out of oversized vases at the dolls' feet.

_Buck up, Shel_. She told herself, gritting her teeth.

"I thought you said you wanted to get a present for Brian." Shelley said, frowning as her friend began to sift through racks of negligees.

"This IS for him." Nancy replied patiently. She said, pulling a strappy black contraption off the rack to examine more closely. "A woman doesn't squeeze herself into this crap for herself, that's for damn sure. All the buckles and belts and pushing and yanking." She tilted her head to examine the price tag. Fairly steep for something she'd only be wearing for about thirty seconds, she thought, returning it to it's metal hanger.

Shelley blushed. She took sudden fascination in the linoleum floors, sweeping a foot over the edge of the tile. Her fingers fiddled with the strap of her purse. She was looking anywhere but the racks.

"Maybe you can pick up something for tonight too." Nancy wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. She was hoping for a laugh but instead Shelley paled impossibly more and chewed on her lip. She sighed. "Shell. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Shelley insisted. "Everything is fine."

Nancy snorted skeptically. "If you say so."

Who the hell was she kidding, Shelley thought. If she couldn't tell Nancy she wouldn't be able to tell anyone.

"It's just … me and Wordy. We've been dating for a month and a half now." She said slowly, absently skimming a hand down a short silk nightgown.

Nancy nodded slowly. "And?"

"We haven't … we've never." Shelley couldn't finish the sentence. Her face flushed with embarrassment. Her gaze dropped to the nightgown, carefully inspecting it's pearly buttons.

Nancy gaped. "Are you … Shelley are you saying that you and Wordy have never made love."

"Basically." Shelley squirmed uncomfortably.

"But … Oh… Well… I just assumed." Nancy blustered. She shoved her bangs back from her face. "Why the hell not?"

"Maybe he doesn't want me." Shelley responded miserably. "He comes over and everything is wonderful and fine. He kisses me until my head feels light. and I'm all stirred up And then he'll say he has work tomorrow or that he should get going."

"Oh." Nancy responded, face furrowing in a frown as the mechanical wheels in her head ground into action.

"Maybe he's not really interested in me at all. Maybe he just feels protective of me. He didn't want to hurt my feelings by rejecting me out-right." The words poured out like water spilling from a split dam.

Nancy fought the urge to snort, remembering Wordy's drunken antics the night he'd found out Shelley had gotten engaged. She remember, vividly, how sweet and innocent his boyhood crush on her had been. And look what it had blossomed into - real, true love. The kind that made a man patient enough to be sure his girl was ready to make that next big leap forward. There was no mistaking that Wordy wanted Shelley - and had for years.

"I don't think that's it at all." Nancy assured her, rubbing a hand down her friends' arm.

"Maybe he thinks I'd be horrible in bed. I mean. The only person I've been with was Blake and it wasn't like that was any good." Shelley's cheeks burned red with embarrassment.

Nancy shook her head violently. "If you think that for a damn minute I'd be disappointed in you. You know better."

Shelley licked her lips. "It's just … I mean. He's never made a move at all. He's always a gentlemen."

"Have you ever made a move." Nancy asked carefully. When Shelley looked at her owlishly, she knew her answer.

Wow. Wordy had to have it bad. Shelley wouldn't know how much it cost him to walk away each night. But Nancy did.

"He's waiting for you." Nancy murmured.

"What?" Shelley's confusion was clear.

"He's waiting for you to decide if you're ready. He wouldn't want to push you. He wants you to make the decision. He wants you to the be the one who makes the push in your relationship. He wouldn't want to pressure you." Especially, Nancy thought darkly, after seeing Blake nearly rape her. It must have given Wordy some bad moments. Nobody knew what it had been like with Shelley and Blake - so Wordy was giving her the space to decide if she wanted to go down that road with him at all.

"Oh." Shelley licked her lips. "_Ohhh_." It had begun to dawn on her.

"Yeah." Nancy replied. Good lord. The poor man. "What are you going to do about it Shelley?"

She paused for a minute before grinning widely. "Well. He's partial to the colour blue."

Nancy smiled. "Now we're talking."

* * *

Wordy paused in front of Shelley's door, roses clutched in his hands. Stupid freaking Valentine's day. His muscles ached from the pounding he'd put in at the gym before their date. He needed a way to get rid of all the excess energy. He wasn't up for another night of chaste courting. He was finding it harder and harder to back away. He wasn't sure he could take it tonight. He needed her. Badly.

He didn't want to push or pry. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could wait. Each day it got worse. Just the smell of her perfume was enough to set his systems on all-barrels firing.

He took a deep breath before knocking.

"Come on in." Her voice, that sexy, smooth voice, answered almost immediately.

He pushed open the door. He ground his teeth to supress a moan when he spotted her, silhouetted against the dark window of her apartment. A silk robe was knotted loosely around her waist, riding high on those endlessly long legs. It slipped at the shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck. Her hair curled loosely around her shoulders, spilling out of the hairpins he knew she favoured. It flowed down in waves around her face.

"Oh. You're not… you're not ready. I can wait. Outside. In the car. If you want." Wordy muttered, inwardly kicking himself. _Cool it, bud._

"It's okay. I think we'll be alright." She said, moving past him to shut the door.

"Are those for me?" She asked, glancing at the forgotten flowers clenched in his fist. She was surprised at how utterly calm she was. No butterflies, no doubts.

"Yeah. Yes." He gulped. "I thought you deserved roses."

"Thank you." She said, lifting them to her nose. Their airy and romantic smell lingered in the air between them. The petals were soft against her cheeks. Her first roses, she realized, as she lay them carefully on the short entrance table.

She smiled broadly as she turned back to face Wordy.

His heart missed a beat as the robe slipped down another inch. It seemed to cling to her body, by some sheer force of physics, just barely.

"You should put something on. We should get going." He said at last. When it seemed as though he couldn't take the torture any longer.

"I don't think so." Shelley replied evenly. Her heart began to race inside her chest.

Wordy frowned in confusion. He opened his mouth but couldn't form words once she'd closed the gap, reaching up on tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

"I want to stay here tonight" She said, letting the robe slip the rest of the way. "And I want you to stay with me."

His mind went mercifully blank as she pressed her lips against his in a kiss that was soft and slow and torturous. Her hands slid around his neck, pulling him deeper. They both slid under.

His hands streaked up to cradle her face in his palms, that smooth skin against his calloused fingers. He eyes, deep blue and slightly unfocused, stared up at him trustingly.

"Are you sure." He had to ask. Just as she had to be certain.

"Absolutely."


	36. Footsteps

_AN: just a quickie - hope you enjoy. I'm moving to Toronto next week and starting my degree so you can imagine things will be getting pretty hectic. Would love to update by next friday but no promises._

**_..._**

Shelley raced down the sidewalk, legs pumping furiously. The cement beneath her blurred and her breath pulsed out in puffs of white vapour. The wind caught her tousled and waved hair, whipping it into her face. But at her pace she barely noticed.

_Late, late, late _she chided herself, kicking up her speed as she heard the church bells chime quarter past.

But oh so very worth it, she thought smugly, as she rounded the final corner and the diner burst into sight.

She swung through the door at top speed.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry sorry!" She shouted, shrugging out of her coat and looping it's collar over one of the pegs above the furnace. She'd forgotten mittens and her scarf in her rush and, looking down at her cold-reddened hands, she knew she'd wish she'd thought of them for the walk home.

Behind the counter Barb paused, coffee pot poised over a customer's waiting mug. She cocked an eyebrow, shooting Shelley a look up and down.

"Sorry." Shelley muttered, securing her apron around her waist. Cold fingers knotted the white strings at her back. She pushed her hair, irreparably mussed, back. Shoving her hands into her jean pockets she searched frantically for something - an elastic or clip. She triumphantly snagged one from her back pocket, carefully looping her hair up and away.

"I was… there was traffic." She muttered lamely, snatching up a notebook from the drawer beneath the cash register

"Mmhm." Barb responded evenly.

"Bay Street. Nightmare." She thumbed through the pile of pens , selecting a red bid. Shoving it into the pocket of the apron, she bounced down the counter to a pair of her rather antsy-looking regular.

"Morning Mr. Faber. The usual?" She beamed.

The crowds didn't abate until well into the afternoon. As customers, sated and filled trickled out, more clambered into their vacated booths and stools. At nearly three, with the last of their lunch crowd, straggling out the front door, Shelley heaved a sigh of relief.

Barb emerged from the back, dusting flour-coated hands on her white baker's apron.

"Put your feet up girl." She ordered, striding across the cafe to flip over their 'open' sign.

"Oh I couldn't." Shelley protested.

Barb shot her a steely gaze. "Haven't taken your break yet have you?" She slipped past Shelley to begin to stack the last of the lunch dishes on a wide black tray.

"No. But I was late for work." Shelley said. Not that she wouldn't have minded a good galloon of coffee and a chance to sit down for a minute.

"First time since I hired you too," Barb said, carefully balancing the tray on her hip. "You're a good girl, Shelley. Everyone deserves to live a little. Sit down. I'll pour us some coffee."

"That sounds wonderful." Shelley sighed, easing a hip up on one of the tall leather stools. As Barb scooped fresh ground beans into the drip machine, she started to hum to herself.

"Sounds like somebody had a good time last night." Barb grinned. February 15th - notorious for late employees with rumpled hair and dewy eyes. She fancied herself a mother hen to her girls - and Shelley, well, she sometimes needed a little extra love and attention. A little extra protection - she was still a bit fragile around the edges as far as Barb was concerned. It did her heart good to see Shelley, so reserved lately, gliding down the counter. Cracking jokes with the construction workers, jovially jiving to Mr. Williams motown tunes. Her girl was blooming.

"The best." Shelley responded. Her cheeks flushed with the memory, rosy glow washing her cheeks. She leaned forward, bracing her elbow against the counter. "It was the most amazing… just… everything."

Barb grinned, watching the water bubble through the grinds. She remembered what it was like to be young, in love. To find that person that made you feel whole. The one who had you humming when you didn't even realize it. The one who made your glow and grin to yourself all day. The one you rushed home to at the end of a long shift. The one you lingered with before starting another.

"He's just the most amazing person." He made her feel brilliant. Sexy. Smart. Gorgeous. He made her _feel_. She mattered to him - he wanted her. How miraculous was that? It had never been like that before. Never that enormous or consuming. She just had such a big _need _for him, boiling away down in her gut.

Barb silently poured the coffee and slid one across the counter to the grateful Shelley.

"When it's with the right person it matters." Barb smiled wistfully.

Shelley couldn't have said it better herself.


	37. Like a Caged Bird

Wordy glanced down at the upturned face of his wristwatch. He'd skim in just on time. And with the bribe he bore - a large triple-triple with his Inspectors's name on it - he was sure the precinct leader's motto of 'if you're not five minutes early you're five minutes late' would be waived.

Nevertheless he took the stairs to the department two at a time, shoulders hunched against the chill wind. There'd been a cold snap today - winter's way of announcing "I'm still here and I reign supreme". Big fat flakes of snow shook down on man and earth alike. Today would be heavy on the calls, he was sure. Though Toronto could never rival Ottawa for snowfall it snowed on a regular enough basis that people ought to know how to drive in snow. Yet year after year they'd get called to hundreds - thousands - of crashes. Ice-slicked streets were transformed into virtual bumper-car rinks by one set of bald tires or bad brakes. Many a driver had be hauled out of hip-deep snowbanks. And the police were called to dozens and dozens of accidents. From the nicked bumpers of Rosedale Escalades to the five-car pileups in Regent Park. And, as one of the precincts newer cops he'd have to take grunt detail on many of them.

But not even the thought of the drudgery awaiting him could dampen his glowing mood.

Because last night had been the most incredible, the most amazing, the most fantastically jaw-dropping, heart-pounding mind-numbing experience in his life. He guess he'd always known she'd be the one – even eighteen years in the making couldn't dull that. She'd been his princess in the golden tower when he'd been six years old. And now? He couldn't resist the sweet, generous, beautiful and resilient woman she'd grown up to be. He'd tumbled deep and hard in love with her.

Balancing the flat of Tim's on his forearm he eased open the glass door, sliding into the warm lobby. Those slivers of snow began to thaw immediately, sending freezing rivulets of ice down his neck. He shivered.

"Morning Marcy!" He called to the front desk operator, a blonde woman of fifty. She nodded, keeping the receiver of her telephone jammed tightly against her shoulder. In her other hand she brandished a nail file, its lethal silver edge slicing through the air as she emphasized her point to the unseen caller. "Ma'am you need to call a tow truck. No. I understand you're a taxpayer but that's not our job. We can't help you with that." She rolled her eyes heavenward.

Wordy smirked as he hurried down the hall towards the bullpen. The fun had already started, it appeared. The floor was slick with melted snow, and thick rubber matts had been thrown down to give something for booted feet something to grip onto. Coats were slung over the backs of chairs and overtop of desks. Men and women bustled in and out, bundled like puffy snowmen in their layers of down. Others in suit and shirt-sleeves rolled up to their elbows bent low over battered desks. The sound of boots stamping off stubborn ice mingled with the curses of frustrated officers and the incessant hum of telephones and faxes.

Ah, home sweet home, he thought, weaving his way through the maze towards his own desk, tucked against the back wall away from the main hustle.

"And look who decides to join us at last!" Marks grinned, easing a hip down on his desk and crossing his arms in mock scorn. As a concession to the biting cold he'd added a knitted toque, pulling the dark wool down low over his brows.

Wordy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Tims' line was long. Bite me. Brought you a double cream." He said, slapping the paper cup on the desk.

"Missed you at the gym this morning." Detective Lane smirked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his feet at the ankles. Mud, caked to the rubber soles of his heavy uniform boots, flaked off onto the dulled grey surface. Wordy merely shrugged, passing him one of the small brown coffee cups.

"Our boy Wordy's been hitting the gym pretty regularly these days." Ed said to Marks, perilously tipping the chair onto its back two legs. The metal bars creaked beneath his weight.

"I'll say. Almost every day pumping iron or hand-to-hand training. Who was, it, Eddie, who was so vigorous in training yesterday, he nearly dislocated the new rook's shoulder?" Mark asked, indulging in a long sip of his own cup.

"Oh come on. I already apologized to Naismith about that! It was an accident." Wordy retorted.

"Some might say he's got lots of … pent up energy." Ed grinned, reaching for his own Timmy's. "Needed to let of some …. steam."

"Eat shit, Lane." Wordy muttered, skirting around to his own desk.

"Not today though." Ed ignored him, continuing. "Barely squeaking in at the last second. Coffee bribe. Jolly mood. Skipping push-ups. I'd say our boy got some action last night, Marksy-boy."

Marks only grinned conspiratorially.

Ed picked up his coffee, gulping it back in quick swallows. "Nice. Black." He commented, tapping the lid with a long finger.

"Yeah. Just like your freaking heart." Wordy muttered, flush creeping up his collar. Ed let out a short, rumbling laugh.

"Might also be the lipstick stain on your shirt. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is exactly the same one you wore _leaving _the precinct yesterday." Mark added blandly.

"Crap." Wordy muttered, hand jerking up to check for smudges of Shelley's gloss.

The door to the bullpen swung forward, suddenly, and their conversation died as their inspector, a short and robust man, burst through the double doors. A thirty-year veteran of the force he'd clawed his way up into his higher office with a stern, commanding hand and brutal self-discipline. His hair, more white than black now, was slicked back at the temples away from his face. Caramel skin was beginning to sag with age, into lines and wrinkles that told of long years on a relentless job. He strode forward, the sea of officers parting before him.

"Listen up people." He called. "As anybody with a set of eyes can see it's snowing. It has been since yesterday evening. And it will be well into tomorrow. Which means one thing. The citizens of Toronto, whom we have vowed to protect, are going to be idiots, they're going to try and drive and they're going to crash into shit. They're going to crash into each other, they're going to crash into poles, they're going to crash into ditches, they're going to crash into cyclists and people out for a freaking stroll. They're going to crash into every-fucking-thing. And where there are accidents people expect police. All hands aboard on this one. Nobody's desk-jockeying today. We're going to need everyone out and on patrol. We need to remind drivers to be extra careful and to drive slowly. Dispatch will be fielding calls. Anything that sounds legit will be doled out to the nearest cruiser. Disperse!"

Wordy had clambered to grab his coat.

"Wordsworth. Hold up." The inspector called, as men and women began to zip coats and don mittens. Marks shot him a sympathetic glance and Ed clapped a hand on his shoulder before he disappeared into the crowd hurrying out to the parking lot. Wordy groaned inwardly. He'd hoped his entry would have slipped under the radar.

"Yes sir." Wordy responded.

"While I anticipate bribery in the form of coffee, which I will accept, I must remind you that we have a strike policy against tardiness here at precinct 51." The Inspector spoke solemnly.

"Yes sir."

"Three sugars?" The Inspector asked, taking the last of the cups from the cardboard tray.

"Three creams too."

"You're a good man, Wordy. Don't be late again."

Wordy scrambled out the doors of the parking bay. A long line of white cruisers was slowly filing out of the heavy metal grate. Only one car remained, still parked along the brick wall in the furthest slot from the building. Wordy grinned, recognizing the long black coat of the man leaning against the hood.

"Don't tell me you're stuck with me." Wordy called.

Marks shrugged in response.

"Lost the flip with Ed for Geddes."

"Aw now. Gonna hurt my feelings." Wordy muttered, cranking open the trunk to sling his duffle bag of tools and supplies inside.

"Nothing I hate more than the smug glow of a happily wrangled man. If you're not careful it can get contagious." Marks remarked, sliding behind the wheel.

Wordy merely shrugged.

They were silent as he navigated the cruiser to the back of the line, filing out onto the icy streets. They swung away from the main avenue, shooting north on the deserted streets leading towards the far reaches of the city.

"I hate to be that guy..." Marks said slowly. "But do you know what you're getting into here Wordy?"

He stared silently out the window for a minute.

It wasn't that he hadn't asked himself the same question a couple thousand times. It wasn't hard loving Shelley. No. That was the easy part of their relationship. He'd cared for her so long it seemed only natural to make that next step. The hard part was knowing that she might not feel the same way about him.

Sure, she liked him. She cared about him. But the truth was he couldn't be sure she loved him. It wasn't fair to pressure her and make demands.

He could wait. He knew that. And when she was ready to say the words and take that leap of faith he'd be right there along side her. In the meantime knowing that she cared was enough.

"I know what I want." He said finally.

"And is it the same thing as what she wants?"

"I don't know." He had to admit honestly. "I hope so."

"Wordy." Marks' voice was quiet. And the understanding behind that muted tone had Wordy's stomach clenching.

"I know. I know. We're keeping things light for now."

"That's good. You know. She's a sweet girl – and I like her a lot. I like you guys together a lot. I think you're good together. She makes you happy. But she's like a skittish bird. If you push too hard in any direction she's libel to take off. She's getting her first taste of freedom in a long time and making decisions for herself. She's learning she's got wings."

"You write for Hallmark now or something?" Wordy was desperate to lighten the mood.

"You know what I'm saying, Wordy. And you know it's true. You don't want to be holding her back."

"I care about her. I just don't know where she stands."

"Sure you do. Sometimes you meet a woman like that – and your heart leaps up and grabs you by the throat. You want to protect them from everything that's bad in the world – everything we see day in and out. But that's not letting them make their own choices. You've got to be careful with Shel. That's all I'm saying. Because it's hard waiting for somebody. But it would be harder if she walked away."

Wordy sighed.

"Yeah." His belly tightened, heart stuttering his chest at the thought. He had to suppress the urge to reach up and rub his chest to loosen those strained muscles. God.

"I don't want to see you get hurt Wordy." Marks said, sighing. That was the truth of it, after all.

"Giving it my best."

"My money's on you, my friend." Marks said.

"Car 24 this is dispatch. Got a call for you at Eglington and Mt. Pleasant. Appears to be a multi-car fender-bender. Some old biddy lost control of her Subaru. Over."

Marks grinned over at his partner, hand reaching for the sirens. "All right. It's go time. Give 'er."

* * *

AN: Hello all! I am _officially_ a Torontonian, as of two weeks ago. No posts until today due to lack of internet and the crazy hectic orientation programme. U of T is hectic and insane and crazy massive. And I kind of like it so far. Even if it's intimidating as all else.

I'm not sure I'm totally satisfied with how this chappie came out. The essence was that I wanted to have Wordy thinking he's more invested in the relationship. That, while he knows Shel cares about him, he can't be certain she loves him like he does her. And that hurts. He doesn't want to force her or manipulate her into feeling more - because that's not genuine and it's not really love unless it's freely given. You know? Well - let me know if it worked or not.


	38. Bullet and a Target

_AN: Hi! Thank you for all your reviews - I appreciate every one of them. I'm sorry for the lack of updates. I thought with my school schedule (class Monday through Wednesday!) I'd have more time to write but I'm actually incredibly swamped with readings and assignments. Feels like I live at the library. This isn't quite the 'norm' for this story - but don't worry. It's going somewhere. Promise._

* * *

That winter was a long one, dragging wearily into a blustery and chill March. The drifting snows turned to slushy grey rain. But, still, there were signs that spring was at hand. The hard-packed sheets of ice that coated streets and sidewalks were quietly receding and the first hints of green peeked cautiously from beneath the thinning blankets of white.

Wordy and Shelley fell into a routine, spending most of their waking off-shift hours together. He liked hearing her sing as she flittered around the kitchen on those long legs, wrapped in one of his old shirts. He liked listening to her laugh – at something stupid on television, or the antics of the crazy squirrels, or when he'd spin her in quick dizzying loops when they'd go skating. She'd bought him a toothbrush that he left in the medicine cabinet, and his razer joined her bottle of moisturized on the countertop. She cleared out a drawer where he kept an ever-increasing pile of clothes. He spent most of the nights he wasn't patrolling the streets, burrowed up beside Shelley in her too-short bed. He loved coming home to her.

Someday maybe he'd convince her to make it official – move in together. He could probably convince her to get rid of her doll-sized mattress in favour of his comfortable oversized bed.

But, for now, that was just a wish.

Wordy glanced at the dashboard clock. Only two more hours on the clock and he'd be done for the day. It was a night shift – and a quiet one at that. The streets were nearly empty, the last of the evening's partiers retired. Even the late-night burger shacks and greasy spoons, catering to the drunken revelers, were closing their doors. It had been an almost eerily quiet shift – a couple intoxicated partiers stumbling into places they didn't belong and one lonely bar fight. A slow night, indeed.

He stifled a yawn.

"Falling asleep on me there?" Ed asked from the driver's side. They'd been paired for the shift, patrolling the streets of the city's seedier east end.

"You're not exactly scintillating company." Wordy cocked an eyebrow.

"You saying I'm boring?" Ed imitated shock and hurt. His face was was only partially illuminated in the harsh lights of the streetlamps their cruiser raced by.

"You're one to talk Wordy." The radio crackled as Marks' slow drawl piped through. He and his partner of the moment, Geddes, were no doubt every bit as bored and restless as they were. "Domestication's making you guys lose your edge. Next thing you know you'll be talking about recovering the sofa in the bullpen and redoing the trim in the men's locker room."

"Shut up Marks." Ed laughed. "Just because you can't get a woman..."

Marks swore ripely. "He lies! I get plenty of women. That's my problem. Can't just pick one."

"So you say." Wordy remarked under his breath. Ed grinned.

"All units in the Parliament and Queen area respond. We've got reports of gunshots at Trefann and Shuter. Shooters unknown, likely multiple subjects. I repeat – all units respond."

Wordy snatched up the communicator as Ed floored the gas pedal. The car jumped beneath them, surging forward along the empty street.

"All right boys. That area has a lot of alleys and a lot of civilian housing." Ed snapped into his radio. "Containment is going to be a bitch. We're going to need to come in hard, fast and undetected. No lights, no sirens. That's Generation Muerto territory and they don't play around."

"Generation M." Wordy repeated. "They were behind the slayings in Regent Park last year. Two of our own were caught in the crossfire."

Ed nodded. "Their head man – Hector Rodrigues – he's in Kingston Pen awaiting trial on those murders. Proceedings start sometime next month. Some of the other smaller gangs have been moving in on their territory – they can sense when one of their rivals is weak and go in for the kill. Control of drug distribution in that neighbourhood? Score you a lot of money and respect."

Wordy braced his hand against the door as Ed took a hairpin turn at heart-racing speeds. The man was a lunatic behind the wheel.

"Marks, Geddes – you're going to take the south part of Trefann off Queen. Work your way north towards Wordy and I. We'll be taking Dundas. Naismith, Michaels? You there?"

"Copy. We were down at Waterfront. Going to be about 10 maybe."

"Follow up on Marks and Geddes. There's an empty building off the parkade Generation M has been using as a storage and distribution depot. My money is that's where the shots are coming from. You're going to cover the back entrance when you arrive and contain the shooters as we flush them out."

The car slammed to a stop near the mouth of the street with Ed cranking the wheel. Wordy briefly saw the headlights of Marks' and Geddes' car only two blocks ahead before they flickered into pitch darkness.

He lept from the car, hand swinging to his holster for his gun. He braced the hilt in his hands. They only quivered a moment before he steeled his nerves. _Breathe _he told himself. _Just breathe._

The alley was dark and littered with trash. Hunks of wood and overfilled plastic bags were strewn across the narrow street. Windows, long boarded over, were plastered with dark graffiti. Wordy could pick out a few gang tags. The light at the middle of the street was busted – he wondered how long it had been out of service. Wind scraped along the brick buildings and cement walls, whistling a faint and sad song. It was the only sound in the otherwise resounding silence.

His belly clenched and leaped as he crept forward, bracing the gun in both hands. He and Ed advanced, feet making no sound on the pavement.

He saw, immediately, the building Ed had described. The squat two-level building was entirely barred over. Thick metal pipes were wrapped around each shuttered window and the back door was held fast by three shiny silver locks.

"Front door is battered in – looks like somebody wanted in pretty badly. Could be a possible entry point." Marks suggested, as he and Geddes approached.

"Not a lot of options – they're well fortified. Stick with our original pairs." Ed said. "We're going to enter – Wordy and I will take the upstairs. You two cover downstairs. Be careful. Be quick. Watch each others back."

The men looked at each other minute, four shadowy figures in the too-quiet March night. Wordy swallowed hard – his throat was dry. His neck felt too hot, sweat beading at his collar. Together they mechanically worked their way back to the entrance, backs stiffly pressed against the brick wall.

The crippled door loomed ahead of them, splintered and beaten. The mangled locks looked like teeth, blackened by a rapid burst of gunfire.

_Just breathe_.

Ed yanked the door and it pivoted inward, crashing through into the dark room. All four guns were train on the inside, all four flashlights swept across the room.

"Got three bodies." Wordy registered Geddes' voice relaying the scene into his communicator.

"Need ambulances." He added. He tugged back on the instinct to move forward and check for a pulse. Secure the room first, he told himself, sweeping his light over the dark corners.

The walls were punctured by sprays of bullets, black rips and dents in the dirty white drywall. Blood spattered the walls in massive swatches, already turning from red to brown in the stale air.

"First room secure." Ed murmured. He stepped into the room, crouching over one of the young men. He rolled him to his side, fingers feeling for a pulse at the man's tattooed throat. He shook his head grimly.

Wordy did the same, scrambling towards the nearer of the two forms, crumpled against a wall riddled with bullets. Four bullet wounds to the chest and shoulders. There was no way he'd escaped that alive, Wordy though. With quivering hands he reached for his neck. He was right. Nothing.

The skin was still warm beneath his fingers. He yanked them back. Though the mouth had been caught in a snarl, the eyes were blank.

Wordy recoiled, his stomach lurching.

Floorboards creaked as Geddes and Marks pressed forward as well, picking their way across debris towards the far door. Faces grim they disappeared into the hull of the house.

Ed knelt over the other form. "Got a faint pulse. What's the ETA on the Paramedics?" He growled.

"Should be there any minute." The dispatcher replied immediately.

Michaels appeared in the doorway. His gloved hands clenched a white kit with a bright red cross – the field medical kit that every cruiser came equipped with. "I've got this Ed. You and Wordy, head upstairs."

He took the stairs, no longer caring about quiet – the sound of the door crunching inwards surely ruined the element of surprise. The treads seemed to screech beneath his feet. He hit the second floor only seconds before Ed.

Flashlight still swept, continually moving, down the dark hallway. He counted just one door, all the way at the end of the dim passage.

They moved together fluidly, like a machine, their steps perfectly in tune. Wordy could hear Ed's controlled and deep breaths. They were the only noise.

Reaching the door, Wordy braced himself against the wall, hand reaching for the knob. Ed positioned himself in front, prepared to surge forward into the room.

Ed counted down on his fingers.

3….

Wordys hand seized over the knob, gripping it impossibly tight. His heartbeat raced out of control, beating a fast tempo against his ribs.

2….

He started to turn the knob, crouching lower behind the protection of the wooden frame. His muscled bunched, like an animal in hunt.

1….

BOOM.

An explosion rocked the floor, sending Wordy grappling back towards the safety of the wall. Ed hurled himself to the ground, and rolling quickly out of distance. He pressed against the opposite wall, crouched low under the barrage of gunfire.

Round after round of bullets tore through the door, pulverizing the wood. The drywall around the door was shredded by a fresh volley of munitions. Dust flew up as they sprayed into to the walls beside him.

Wordy could hear the others downstairs calling their names and feet running on the treads. The dispatcher frantically called their names, asking if they were okay.

"We're okay. We're not hit." He hissed into his communicator. "Don't come up the stairs, guys. Subject has a high powered shotgun - you'd be putting yourself in range."

Geddes' response was a vicious curse.

"Wordy, how many bullets have you got?"

"Seven."

"Okay. The doors a goner any minute now - another bullet and it's going to come right off its hinges. We'll have no cover."

As if to emphasize his point the door shuttered under a fresh assault.

"When it comes open I'm going in. I need you to cover me. One bullet every two or three seconds – enough to keep him looking for cover. Just need enough time to get in there. Aim high – I'll be pissed if you hit me"

Wordy nodded. They didn't have many options.

He thought of Shelley – her laugh and that slow smile. The way she'd thread her legs through his while she slept, securing herself against him. The smell of violet in her hair.

Shelley.

He waited. One heartbeat two. The door held, even as more bullets pounded into it.

And then it gave. He saw the wood waver and then give, toppling backwards into the room. He leveled his gun and squeezed the trigger. Ed launched himself into the room with the agility and speed of a cheetah. He heard a man's screamed curse. He squeezed the trigger again. Twice more.

Glass shattered – one of his bullets must have caught a window, he guessed. Shards burst, smashing against the floor.

"Put the gun down!" He heard Ed yell. He eased forward at the doorframe until the man came into sight. They were in the middle of a small, shabby apartment. Roseprint wallpaper from song long-gone tenant was peeling off the walls. The man had dragged a small and tattered couch into the middle of the room, propping it up like a barricade. He held a long black and silver gun in front of him. Sweat poured down of his brown. The stomach of his shirt – a white hoodie – was stained a rusty red. Blood seeped out of some unseen wound, dropping against the floor in loud _plops_. His eyes darted between the two men.

"I can't go to jail." He panted, his breaths uneven.

"Put down the gun." Wordy repeated. "Put it down."

"Can't. Can't." The man screamed. One hand left the gun to rub away the rivulets of sweat running down his blanched face. The collar of his shirt was stained dark by his perspiration. He wasn't much more than boy, really. Maybe only sixteen. His face was still rounded with baby fat, shoulders thin and scraggly.

The gun shot up another inch

"Don't make me shoot you." Ed threatened.

"They're the ones who got all up in here! They're the ones! They fucking shot them! I saw them. They shot them all."

"You need to calm down." Wordy said, easing forward slowly to flank Ed.

"I don't need to calm down! I need you to get outta my face!" The boy yowled.

"Sorry, kid, we can't do that. We're not going anywhere." Ed replied.

The gun jumped up another inch in the boy's hand. Wordy's heart lurched in his chest. _Fucking Hell_.

"Tell us what happened. Maybe we can help." Wordy suggested eagerly. "Just tell us what went down and we'll see what we can do."

"Cops always say that shit." The boy sniveled. He dragged a sleeve across his damn face, leaving a streak of blood across his cheek.

"This time's different." Ed responded. "You haven't got a lot of options. You need a hospital, kid, before you bleed out."

Stomach wounds were always problematic. There was a high chance of the bullet ricocheting up into the chest and an even higher probability that you'd hit an organ.

The boy seemed to pause for a second, considering his options.

"The R-Town Boyz – they've been on us for weeks. They've been getting on our turf, stealing business. So Johnny T sent them a message."

"What kind of message?" Ed asked.

"I don't know! Just that he sent him as message and he wouldn't bother us no more!" He screamed. "But it didn't work. They busted in our place shooting and shit."

"How did it go down?" Wordy asked. He kept his voice calm, by some miracle.

"We were just there, minding our own. Johnny T and Christian were dealing out the week's stashes. Cutting the shit, you know? Kicks was guarding the door. Me and Lo were just there. We weren't doing nothing – T called and said he wanted to see us but we just got there. We didn't see nothing in the street but we just got in the door when the shooting started."

The boys chest heaved with his increasingly pants. The effort it took to breathe was clearly enormous. Wordy eased forward a few steps.

"Kicks went down first, he copped one to the chest. He was screaming. T and Chris dove for their guns. I tried to get to Lo but he was already bleeding I couldn't stop it – it was fucking everywhere. Then they were inside – they were emptying their clips. They fucking shot me. I was covered in Lo's blood so I just lay there pretending I was dead like Kicks. He wasn't breathing no more."

The boy started to cry, tears welling over and down that childish face.

"Chris copped one next – saw him go down. They cornered T. I could hear them tearing shit up – turning over tables. They took the coke and patted us down. Didn't find anything on me, but I saw them take Kicks' pistol and Chris' stash. Then then shot T. Point blank, execution style. I ain't seen nobody shot like that before."

"Kid it's going to be fine. We need to get some medical help. But the R-Town Boyz are gone."

"You don't get it!" He reached up, yanking at his hair. Wordy was uncomfortably aware of the wavering gun. He inched closer. He just needed a few more feet until he could grab the barrel. The kid looked like he'd bowl over with a gust of wind – it wouldn't take much to disarm him.

"Ambulances at the ready." Marks' voice came through the radio.

"Imma go to prison and they'll kill me! Only survivor! The others' gonna think I snitched to the Boyz. I won't make it two weeks on the inside."

"Kid, you're going to be fine. You're going to be okay. We're not going to send you to the big house." Ed assure him. "You're, what, 16? That's Juvie at worst."

The kid swayed on his feet. Wordy could see the white-knuckled grip on the gun go slack before the kids' eyes rolled into the back of his head. He lept forward, grabbing the kid under his arms to keep him from falling on his face. Ed seized the gun, yanking it by its metal barrel. It skittered across the ground harmlessly.

"Send up the paramedics." Wordy called into the radio. With a grunt he eased the kid to the ground. He yanked down the zipper of the kids hoodie and pulled up the orange shirt beneath it. Blood pumped out of a vicious looking wound the size of his fist.

"Shit."

He yanked off his jacket, pressing it to the gunshot to try to staunch the bleeding. Keep pressure on the wound, he told himself.

"Wordy." Ed said slowly, surveying the room. "He said four names. Only three bodies downstairs."

"I know." He said. All his attention was focused on the boy. They had to keep him alive. He heard the jarring off footsteps on the stairs. The paramedics seemed to be taking a lifetime to get there. "I know. Maybe one of them was only injured – wandered off."

Blood soaked through the dense fabric of his coat, soaking his hands. They were slick with it.

Hands covered his, pulling his away.

"We got this." The paramedics had finally arrived. They knelt at his head. "When did he lose consciousness."

"Maybe a minute or two ago. He's losing a lot of blood." Wordy said, rocking back on his heels. He couldn't take his eyes off the kids' face – frozen in perpetual fear.

"Alright. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Looks severe." The two men worked quickly, hands running the length of that scraggly body looking for injuries. A stretch materialized beside the kid and together they hefted his limp form onto the it. Buckles were fastened over his chest and legs and a blanket draped over his form. To protect him from shock and keep his body warm, Wordy knew.

"Wordy." Ed's grave voice snapped him back to attention.

He turned and saw what had grabbed Ed's attention. One small ankle poked out from behind the couch.

_No_. His mind seemed to shout. _NO._

His worst fears were confirmed when they rounded the couch, pulling it back across the floor with a hideous scrape. The body of a boy, even younger than their gunman, lay motionless on the floor. His legs were mangled, bone crushed beneath the force of bullets. The legs of his jeans were shredded and completely covered in blood. But it was the face that struck Wordy. That perfect child like face staring up at him with those dead and lifeless eyes. The pupils were fully dilated, only a small ring of brown iris showing beneath those pools of black. Dead.

_Shit_. He stumbled back. His stomach heaved.

"Outside." Ed ordered. Wordy scrambled down the hall, past Marks and Geddes and their backup. The floorboards raced beneath his feet until he hit the front door. The cool air was welcome on his feverish skin. He fell to one knee, vomiting until his stomach was empty and his belly could do more than clench in agonizing wretches.

"You're okay Wordy." Ed said, patting him on the shoulder. Wordy hadn't heard him approach and jumped at his voice. "It was a bad scene. Your first DOS?"

"Dead on Scene?" Wordy asked, voice cracking. He staggered to his feet. "Yeah. My first."

"They stick. Come on. Lets get back to the car. The others are going to have to handle the crime scene til the techs get here. The chief is going to want to debrief with us at the station."

"He was just a kid."

"I know." Ed's voice was sympathetic. He'd been on the job nearly half a decade longer than Wordy – he'd seen a lot of things. This was pretty bad. It was always harder with kids.

Marks approached cautiously. "Got IDs on the two boys. Enrique and Angelo Rodrigues."

"He called him Lo." Wordy murmured. "They were brothers."

"Yeah. After the Boyz left, Enrique must have hauled him upstairs. I guess he thought he needed to protect them - must have been a gun cache in the apartment. Didn't want to leave him behind if they came back, I'd wager. Looks like he tried to tourniquet the legs but that kind of bleeding – he'd have been dead within seconds."

"Rodrigues." Ed repeated, slowly catching on. "Related to Hector." It wasn't a question so much as a statement.

"His two younger brothers." Marks said grimly.

"This is going to be war when he finds out." Wordy muttered. The wind, ripping through his shirt, chilled him to the bone. He suppressed a shiver.

"It's going to be ugly." Ed agreed. "Come on buddy. We've got to go. Chief is going to need to speak with us." He nodded to the mouth of the alley where they'd abandoned their cruiser.

Wordy nodded and with heavy feet began to walk towards it.

He only made it a few steps before turning. "Marks?" He called uncertainly.

"Yeah."

"How old was Angelo?"

"Thirteen. Almost Fourteen. His birthday was next weekend."

Anger shot through him like a bullet to the chest. Pity for a boy who'd never really know what life swamped him. Rage at the men who'd riddled that body with bullets and left to him to bleed to death. And misery knowing he'd been helpless to stop them.

* * *

AN: Hope you enjoyed!


	39. Cleanse

Hi guys – sorry for the wait. If I didn't get the chance to thank you for your reviews I apologize – they were all deeply appreciated. This chapter was delayed until the worst of my coursework was out of the way. Exciting news: I now intern at the ROM where they filmed the episode Acceptable Risk. Amazeballs. On the downside: less writing time for this sad Panda. Thanks for reading. Love.

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The first thing she noticed, waking that morning, was the cold. Usually Wordy knocked the thermostat up a few inches when he got back from his nightshift. She'd register the soft clicking of the lock and the padding of feet across the hall. He'd dial the nob up a few degrees and her furnace would roar into action, clanking into life with a mechanical belch. Then he'd slid into bed beside her, curving his body along side her and fall into a dead sleep.

Not today though. She pulled the fleece blankets up to her chin and nuzzled her face into the pillow. She was tired – she'd gotten so used to his presence it made it hard to sleep without him sometimes.

She still had nightmares. They weren't nearly as vivid or frequent as she had just months ago. She'd dream of his eyes – those dead, lifeless eyes. Or his hands, rough palmed and flushed red from the drink, reaching for her in the dark. Enough to have her jolting awake. But fear no longer ruled her life. It was hard to believe, she thought, as she cuddled back into bed, how much your life could change in just a half a year.

She glanced over at the clock, perched perilously on the edge of the bedside table, its green numbers glowing in the breaking dawn's half-light.

Her heart pitched.

Was it really 7:32?

It couldn't be.

Wordy wasn't home. He was always home by 6. Always.

Her hand shot out, scrambling for the wristwatch lying on her bedside table. In her haste she knocked it to the floor and heard the clockface crack, hitting the hardwood floor. Snatching it up, she peered through the fractured glass.

Sure enough. 7:32.

She sat upright in the chilly air, and frantically pushed her sleep-knotted hair from her face.

Her mind raced with possibilities, each more devastating and unpleasant than the last. He'd been in the middle of a hold-up, he'd been hurt in some kind of car accident, he'd been shot. He'd been killed.

"_No."_ She ordered herself. She forced herself to breathe – unstably sucking in air. _"No. He's fine."_

"He's fine." Saying it out loud made it real.

The phone rang, that shrill trill so much like a death knoll.

She lurched out of bed, racing through the apartment to the phone. Her feet danced across the frigid floors, her thin nightgown no protection from the unheated apartment.

_Trill_

It seemed to shriek again. She reached for the receiver tentatively. Is this what it would be like? She wondered. He'd been late before – once or twice. It had never incited that rush of terror and dread. That icy feeling that raced down her spine and settled in her belly. Would this be what it was like from now on – always worrying? Always expecting the worst? Fearing the telephone's ring?

_Trill_

She snatched up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey Shelley. It's, uhm, Marks."

The silence dragged on, the only sound her heart drumming wildly in her chest.

"Is … is something wrong?" She heard herself ask, voice eerily calm.

"I don't think so. We took a bad call last night and I thought I'd check in ... is Wordy there? Is he with you?" He voice seemed unnaturally strained and, in the background, she could hear the din of the bullpen.

"No." Her hand shot up to push back her tumble of hair. "He didn't come back this morning. He's okay, right?" She asked.

"He wasn't hurt." Marks replied hesitantly.

That wasn't really the same thing, she thought, rubbing her thumb across her brow. Cops were good at that – misdirection, avoiding ugly questions and uglier answers.

"Listen, Shel, I've got to go. I think though – well, I think he might need you. It's hard to explain. Just be there when he comes, okay?" She didn't have time to respond before the line went dead.

She stood perfectly still for a minute, caught somewhere between relief and panic.

_If he were hurting, why wouldn't he come to her?_ She thought. _Where the bloody hell was he?_

The dialtone buzzed against her ear, springing her back into action. Tossing the receiver back on the hook, she took off, racing back to the bedroom. She snagged a pair of jeans off the top of her laundry hamper, and shimmied into them, still fastened. She yanked off the nightgown, ripping the flannel over her head and tossing it on the floor. The sweater she pulled off the dresser was his – left over from his University of Ottawa days. There was a coffee stain on the right shoulder and a small hold in the left sleeve. It was worn soft by hundreds of washes and smelled exactly like his aftershave. Like a punch to the gut.

She raced out, yanking boots on over bare feet. She hopped on one foot, the leather catching on her heel, until she forced harder and it slid into place. Snatching her purse off its perch by the door, she shot out of the apartment and down to the street.

Later she'd wonder if she even remembered the lock the front door.

The carbide to Wordy's apartment couldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes, but it felt like _forever_. Each time the driver hit another red light, another angry snarl of morning traffic she had to resist the urge to bury her face in her hands and groan.

"In a hurry?" The cabbie asked. His voice was dry and cracked, like a dust road in august. Years of cigarettes had clearly taken their toll.

The news muttered in the background reading out the predictions for the weather – almost perpetually wrong. Rain, it called for. Lots of rain.

"Sort of." Shelley said through a strained smile. She forced her fingers, tapping a furious beat against her thighs, to stop. But after a second, the unconscious rhythm returned and they drummed ever more anxiously against the coarse denim.

"Everyone's got somewhere to be this morning." He said, pushing back his faded Blue Jays' cap to scratch at his near-bald head.

She could only nod and tap those long fingers.

The radio buzzed and crackled with static. She caught a few words – enough to have her snapping forward, jerking as the hard seat-belt bit into her chest.

"Turn it up. Please." She insisted, straining to hear the words.

"Sad, ain't it?" The cab driver asked, gnarled and arthritic hand slowly dialing the knob until the hissing subsided and the broadcasters' voice pumped cleanly into the cab.

… _One was taken to the hospital where he succumbed to his injuries. It is believed that the shootings are gang related. These murders come hot on the heels of a violent incident which claimed the lives of two Toronto Police officers._

She tried to remind herself that Marks had said he was okay. She just needed to be sure.

His apartment building loomed ahead, a brutalist 60s monstrosity of cold cement and dirt brown paint. It had been dated before the first pillar had been poured, she was certain. It was the ugliest building in all of L'Amoreaux, but also one of the cheapest. Even before New Years Wordy hadn't spent much of his time at his own place, dividing most of his days between the gym, precinct and his family.

It seemed to glare down at her as the orange taxi sped nearer.

The taxi pulled up alongside the curb, wheels carelessly scraping concrete. She didn't even glance at the fare counter with its blinking dials, stuffing a handful of bills through the gaping mouth of the glass driver shield. She shoved out of the door, scrambling out onto the sidewalk.

She ate up the distance between the street and the front doors in long, quick strides.

The door swung open just as she reached for it, the cool metal bar sliding out of her grasp as it shoved forward. She stumbled out of the way.

Hot, hard hands seized her by the arms, steadying her.

It was him of course, standing framed in that doorway. Relief poured through her. He really was okay. She hadn't fully believed it until now.

"Shell." His voice was whisper soft. His hands drew back, dropped away from her and fell to his sides.

His eyes were rimmed with dark shadows and shot with red. His mouth pressed into a firm, flat line. Exhaustion was etched on his face, each muscle tensed stiff.

She reached up, hands meant to comfort.

He turned. Not away, but just enough. That gesture said a million things. Stay back. Don't touch me. Leave me be. I don't need you.

It was like a slap.

"I heard on the news. Just now." She said lamely. She tucked scorned hands back into her coat pockets to keep them from reaching again. She wanted that contact – craved it. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, bring him whatever comfort she could manage. He needed an anchor. She wanted to give him one.

"Yeah. Well." He dragged a hand down his face, dragged the back of it over his mouth.

"I'm sorry." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Why, Shell? What the hell have you got to be sorry for?" It burst out of him, angry words tumbling over themselves.

Guilt seared through him immediately. He never wanted to hurt her, but keeping the anger inside, all bottled up, was eating him up. "God. I'm sorry Shelley. I just can't today. I can't do this right now. I need some space."

Panic swelled. She had to swallow the surging lump in her throat.

"Kevin." She kept the cracks from her voice. She'd be strong, she told herself. "What are you saying?"

"I don't even know anymore." He sighed heavily. "You shouldn't be here."

The silence built between them like a wall – a thick and impenetrable barrier.

"Okay." She said at last. She could feel her heart crushing in her chest – it pounded painfully inside her, filling her head and resounding in her ears. "Okay. I'll go. I just wanted to be sure that … " She couldn't finish.

He wouldn't see her cry. She promised herself that. She wouldn't foist that guilt upon him. She rounded on her heel. Her eyes strung with the effort to keep them from welling over and her hands tingled numbly by her sides.

She didn't make it more than two feet.

"Shell." He didn't reach for her, instead choosing to shove his fisted hands into his coat pockets. He couldn't bring himself to touch her with those hands – the same ones that had pressed to that bleeding wound in that dark and festering hellhole. The same ones that had leveled his service weapon at a child. The same ones that had failed to save those boys' lives. He couldn't.

"I'm sorry, Shell. I don't know what to tell you – what to say to make you understand. This is all really new for me and I don't know where the hell I'm supposed to step. "

She pressed her eyes shut. This was just as confusing for him and it was for her. It was unfamiliar and alien territory for the both of them.

"We'll figure it out together." She promised.

"I'm just so angry." He sputtered. His pulled his hands from his pockets and splayed them front of him like some kind of shield, fending her off. "I can't contain it. I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want to scare you."

"You couldn't. You don't scare me, Kev. I know that you couldn't hurt me."

"Do you?" He looked so miserably unhappy.

"I do." She wanted to shove those hands out of the way – hold him close. She wanted to ease that wild and hard look from his eyes, wipe the exhaustion from his face. He was in pain – she wanted to soothe it.

"Come with me." He said suddenly.

"Where?" She asked.

"Does it matter?" He barked out a laugh. "Everywhere. Nowhere."

"Anywhere you go, I'll go." She smiled wryly.

They walked to the car. He stayed ever vigilant, careful not to touch her – no brushing of hands, no looping his arm around her as they strode forward in tandem. No palm spread wide on her lower back, giving her those sharp little thrills. Careful and precise, he never touched her - not once.

They stayed silent as they clambered into his old pick-up, no empty words to clutter the cab.

Wordy eased out onto the roads, merging and weaving through traffic until the city, with its bright lights and dominating skyscrapers faded in the rearview mirror, flecks on a seamless horizon. His hands gripped the frigid steering wheel until his fingers whitened with effort. Shelley could do nothing but watch.

The highways narrowed from the massive sixteen-lane asphalt ribbons. They grew ever smaller with each mile. The barren roadsides gave way to greening farms and surging hills budding with new life. Trees were on the verge of sprouting new leaves, shy and tentatively unfurling from their limbs. The light above faded from the harsh glare of morning to a gentler glow of afternoon.

Slowly the speedometer rose, the tiny orange needle wavering ever higher. Never beyond his control, but steadily climbing. He was running – speeding away in that red Dodge towards some unspoken destination.

The car lurched as Wordy spun off onto a red dirt lane, barely wide enough for their car. The broken and snarled branches of the brush scraped along the doors of the car in a mournful wail. Ahead dark waters churned against grey land, white foam thrashing on the heads of surly waves.

The car rolled to a stop at the head of the trail, tires crunching over pebbles.

"Wordy?" She asked tentatively. He didn't respond, merely shoving open the door and stumbling out into the wind. Struggling to prise open the heavy door she followed. The breeze was chilly, shooting through the sweater and straight to her bones. She gritted her teeth.

"We used to come here as kids – Mom and Dad used to bring us. Me, Hailey, Jenna. Ash and Amy until they hit about 15 and it wasn't cool anymore. The whole family." He licked his lips.

"I always envied you growing up – big family and all."

"Yeah. You're never alone." He smiled. "In the city we were all busy. You know? School, work, friends, sports. We were all pulling in a million directions. Here the world just stopped. Felt safe. Loved. It was like the land stripped you back until you were purely you again. Everything bad just went away."

"Kevin. You can lean on me. I won't break." She assured him, stepping forward until they were side by side. She reached for his hand. He didn't resist.

"They were so young, Shel." He muttered, the words sorrowful and bitter on his tongue. "They'd never known a different life – something decent. They were just cannon fodder in this horrible war that we pretend doesn't exist. We walk around like everything is okay – but it's not. It isn't okay."

He sucked in a deep breath and that salty air filled his lungs. He could feel the wall of anger fracturing, peeling away.

"That boy was so terrified. He was bleeding to death in front of us and we couldn't convince him to put down his weapon. When he went down – fainted – he was still clutching that gun like it was the only thing saving him. What the hell is the point? If we can't save kids like him, what the fucking hell is the point?"

"I know it doesn't seem fair, but you can't save everyone, Kevin. The world doesn't work like that. You can only do your best."

"It's not enough." He replied, shaking his head.

"It was for me." She said quietly. "You were there That made all the difference in the world. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you." Her smile was sad as she turned back towards him.

"You care about people. Maybe it means you get hurt. But it 's also what makes you amazing at what you do. Because the cases you see, the people you meet matter to you." Her hand clenched his tighter, fingers interlocking, palm to hot palm.

"Shell." Suddenly his arms were wrapped around her, hauling her closer. On tip-toes she pressed back against him. Relief poured through her bones, filling her body. There he was – solid, whole, okay. Her hands locked around his neck, anchoring him as her lips met his. The kiss was scored with need, with hot lashes of a desperate ache and an equally desperate need to soothe and comfort. She poured herself into that kiss. His fingers clutched the soft material of her sweatshirt, clenching against the rising need.

"Shell." _I love you_. "Thanks."

She smiled. "You're gonna be okay. Let's go home, cowboy."


End file.
